The Hot-Bed's Advice to a certain Gardener

Tho' you to rival me presume, Are warm, and hot, and love to fume, The heat's no deeper than the skin, You're cool, nay very cool, within: The fruit too of my smoak and stir, Is but the poor cool cucumber; And though to some advantage shewn, Our composition well is known, Made up of dung, and dirt, and mire, Tho' full of smoak, we boast no fire; Then let us shun the public jest, We are but dunghills at the best. Be quiet, brother, wisely think, The more we stir, the more we stink.