Good God! James Boswell, what's that world to me?
The folks who paid respects to Mistress Thrale,
Fed on her pork, poor souls! and swill'd her ale,
May sicken at Piozzi, nine in ten—
Turn up the nose of scorn—good God! what then?
For me, the Dev'l may fetch their souls so great;
They keep their homes, and I, thank God, my meat.
When they, poor owls! shall beat their cage, a jail,
I, unconfin'd, shall spread my peacock tail;
Free as the birds of air, enjoy my ease,