And such mortals detest,
Who sacrifice life without measure.
The fluttering fop,
How empty his top!
Nay, but some call him coxcomb, I trow;
[p115] But ’tis losing your time,
He’s not worth half a rhyme,
Let the fag ends of prose bind his brow.
The guttling sot,
What a conduit his throat!