For, in their lowering looks I read damnation:
You expect a satire, and I seldom fail;
When I'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail.
You British fools, of the old Trojan stock,
That stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit,
When women's cullies come to judge of wit.
As we strew rat's-bane when we vermin fear,
'Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here;
And, after all our judging fops were served,