To Their High Mightinesses the Inhabitants of

Sprung from the meanest of the rabble, Some rise to pomp and splendor, Who think that wealth shou'd domineer, And modest worth keep under.

Ah! truly mean ungen'rous thought, Bred in a servile mind; But distant very, very far, From ev'ry soul refin'd. The spacious field of verdant grass, When Rosinant will shun it; Or when Snap leaves a stinking bone, Or when he leaves his vomit:

Then will ye leave your inborn dirt, Ye foul mouth'd sons of meanness! Then will ye rev'rence from your souls, The blue-ey'd maid and Venus.

Oft have I known a scoundrel rap, Sprung up from dung and — Strud proudly wrap'd in pomp of dress Like Juno's haughty bird.

So your imperial mightinesses Were very screech-owls born, Tho' now the peacock's gaudy plumes Your swollen sides adorn.