When some home joke has stung their solemn souls,
In vengeance they determine to be fools;
Through spleen, that little nature gave, make less,
Quite zealous in the way of heaviness;
To lumps inanimate a fondness take;
And disinherit sons that are awake.
These, when their utmost venom they would spit,
Most barbarously tell you—"He's a wit."
Poor negroes, thus, to show their burning spite
To cacodemons, say, they're dev'lish white.