Or nabob, for the vulgar stare,
Till, spurned by all good men with scorn,
He wishes he had ne’er been born,
And homeward turns in his vexation,
To find midst Copps some toleration.
A loyal tongue he sometimes wags,
But see those fangs and poison bags
That he concealed beneath its root;
Touch not or death will be the fruit.
But he our words will laugh to scorn,