EPIGRAM
Translated from the French of Mr. Patris, who composed it a few days before his death. By J.C.
Last night I dreamt that worn away
With sickness, I was dead,
And that my carcass, cheek by jowl,
Was by a poor man's laid.
My stomach rose, methought, to see
The wretch so near me lie,
And straight his sauciness I chid,
Like corpse of quality.
Scoundrel, cried I, move farther off,
And give your betters room,
Avaunt, you scrub, and rot elsewhere,
Foh! how you stink and fume.
Scrub! quoth the saucy dog, that's well,
Pray who's more scrub than you?
Bethink you, Mr., where you are,
And do not rant it so.
Hither on equal terms all come,
Here's neither rich nor poor,
My muck's my own, and be assur'd,
That your's can be no more.