THE fiery Plantation Author perhaps may be angry, that I liken him to so little an Animal as a Monkey in the Title, when in his Tower-hill Simile he assumes to himself the mighty Image of a true bred Mastiff; tho' where his Breeding is I can't tell; for I understand at the Derby Ale-house that his Friends never bred him a Scholar, but where his want of it appears may be easily discernable, even by our Au­thor, who has none.

The way to give him no further provocation is to Answer him in La­tin, and then your sure not to be understood, unless he happily lights on Tom. Brown to expound it to him, and the way to provoke him is much more difficult to be found, if our Champion pleases to remember who 'twas challeng'd him before his Printer, and could get nothing more from him then that he liv'd at Islington; And this is an instance of his Courage, Contempt, and holding up his Leg, and scornfully pissing upon his trembling Assailant; so it is an Evident Sign our Dealer in Similitudes, after he was not suffer'd to be one in Sugar, is as far from having any just claim to the use of a Cudgel for his Talent, as he has to the use of a Pen.

But our Author is eager for doing the World Justice, and the Un­mannerly sauce-box must be discover'd, who dar'd yelp at the Heels of this Disdainful Bull-dog. I warrant you he thinks he deserves as much at least as Dr. Oates for the Discovery of his Horrid Plot against the Purses of his Majesty's Subjects. A Bookseller in Fleetstreet shew'd him Feltham's Re­solves, pointed out the place to him, and with much ado, he Read it.

O Monstrum Horrendum! Here is a Plagiarism in Perfection, a whole Sheet and an half stolen, and not fall under the Censure of some Magi­strate for it. But these two Words of Latin has sent him in the search of some Interpreter to give him the English of them. And now in his absence, I must do my self and the Bookseller the same Justice he pre­tends to do to the World.

A Gentleman brought a small Pamphlet in 12's to my Bookseller, Entitul'd Batavia, or the Hollanders display'd, but no Author, or Bookseller's Name to it, but only Printed in the Year 1697. This he told him he brought from Holland, and advis'd him to Print it, as being full of pretty delightful Remarks. Accordingly it was brought me, and after adding two Sheets and an half to it, we agreed to call it a Trip to Holland, be­cause a certain scurrilous nonsensical Pamphlet had sold well under the Name of a Trip. This, upon the Word of a Gentleman, a Title, to which our Curry-Comber has no Plea, is the real Truth, and we were led on in this ignorance, till the Day or two before it was published, when it was too late, to recall a Design, the Bookseller had been at too great a charge, and trouble in carrying on, to lose the Publication of.

He is sorry for the Man who deals in Books, and I am sorry for him who pretends to write them; but I am sure the last does not deserve the Pity which the first is above. Wit and Necessity should be the Ingre­dients of a good Poet; but how he comes to make this applicable to a Man who improves in his Trade, is Reputable amongst his Neighbours, and is esteem'd as a Companion for better Gentlemen than the Jamaica-Author, or his ignorant Printer [...], I cannot tell, unless the busie Fleet-street Book-seller told him.

As he has describ'd me to be a Little, Shallow-brain'd Fellow, so it will not be out of the way to give a Description of him. To begin [Page 2]therefore with his Face; It is Russet-colour'd, with Pock-holes in it; and as that is somewhat broader than ordinary, so his Skull, whose Em­ptiness is the only Argument of a Vacuum in Nature, is proportionable. His Body is a long Ox's Bladder, blown up with the Wind of Derby-Ale: His Legs too have partaken of the same Flatus; and he looks like a Man who Cudgels People as much as he talks of it. For his Apparel, it all came out of one Shop: No one has the Impudence to call his Wigg a Second-handed one, for it was the Cast-off of some Valet de Chambre, and he had it from his Master, the Broker from him, and he from the Bro­ker. The Sword was some disbanded Trooper's, a swinging one, which was pawn'd for a Shilling, and so our Author had a Bargain in it in buying it for Two. His Cravat and Ruffles, for I must tell you, when he came to Bully me, he had Hand-Cuffs, look'd as if they had the Yellow-Jaun­dice, and yawn'd at as many Holes as his own Jamaica did when it had an Earth-quake, which he calls the Dry Belly-Ach.

His Fancy is not Mushroon, as he calls mine, which grows up to Perfe­ction in one Night; but he must have two Days and a Night to spoil what another would have perfected in half an Hour, else he would ne­ver have spent Saturday, Sunday, and the Night following, on so trifling an Half-sheet as his Trip to Holland Detected.

As for his being a Transported Felon, I shall not concern my self who incerted it, tho' he is so positive in his Man: Ev'n let it be as he thinks, for I should lose more than his Satisfaction would make me Amends for, should I take the pains to inform him.

And for his pretending to insinuate to the World, that I call'd my Bookseller the Ignorant PUPPY, my Chap, I should do well to lay the Ig­norance at his own Door, whose Brain is so shallow as not to fathom the Meaning of it. For once therefore, to hold a Light to his Understand­ing, which is hid under the Bushel, his Skull, for I told you before the Di­mensions of it, I declare, I have more Respect for my Book-seller, than to load him with any such Character; and I desire him, who was one of the Readers, to take it to himself.

His last Paragraph but one, has Occasion for a more serious Answer. Here he would fasten a Crime upon me, which I declare, in the Presence of God, I know nothing of, directly, or indirectly; and know no more of what he means by his ambiguous speaking of a Silver Tankard, than he did my Sense when I said the Puppy, my Chap. Indeed, I have sold ma­ny Books, and cannot but think he had done me more Justice, had he said, my Family (which he owns to be that of a Gentleman) had been disgrac'd by their with-holding Money from me, not by my selling of Books. And, for writing Obscene Ballads, Bloody Murthers, and Last Dy­ing Speeches, he cannot but remember where the Reflection lies, since he was W— the Printer's Journey-man for a considerable time.

The last Paragraph gives you the Declaration of our Exasperated Bull-Dog: He tells the World, as if he were at his last Confession, he never wrote the Answer to the Trip to Holland. And what of all this? He has Curry'd himself out of the World's Favaur without it, by his Present of the Curry-Comb.

To conclude, for the Paper will hold no more, neither the Author, or the Book-seller, value the Threatnings of his Cane, or his London-Spy; but both are of the same Opinion with a great Writer at Will's Cof­fee-house, That now the Fool has written himself into some Reputation amongst the Mob, he is writing Post to get out of it again.

☞ This Day is Re-printed The Trip to Holland; and may be had at most Booksellers.

☞ On Thursday seven-night will be Publish'd The London Spy taken and Executed, with his last dying Speech.