In satire fierce, in pleasure gay,
Shall not my Thralia's smiles inspire,
Shall Sam refuse the sportive lay?
"My dearest lady, view your slave,
Rehold him as your very Scrub:
Ready to write as author grave,
Or govern well the brewing tub.
"To rich felicity thus raised,
My bosom glows with amorous fire;
Porter no longer shall be praised,