Laws my Pindarick parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.
My infant tears a sort of measure kept,
I squal'd in Distichs, and in Triplets wept.
No youth did in I education waste,
Happy in an Hereditary Taste.
Writing ne'er cramp'd the sinews of my thumb,
Nor barb'rous birch e'er brush'd my brawny bum.
My guts ne'er suffer'd from a college-cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.