Well, ’tis no matter, wherever such as he
Knows one grain, more than his simplicity.
Now, how the pulses of my senses beat,
To think the rigid Fortune thou wilt meet; {29}
Asses and captious Fools, not six in ten
Of thy Spectators will be real men,
To Umpire up the badness of the cause,
And screen my weakness from the rav’nous Laws,
Of those that will undoubted sit to see
How they might blast this new-born Infancy: