Attack’d the honest, harmless beast,
And of his carcass made a feast.
Excuse me, Sir, if when I hear
Your worship’s voice, I shed a tear:
When it so loud and shrill does rise,
I think I hear poor Cuddy’s cries:
So like his braying is your shake,
My very heart is like to break!
MORAL.
Ye squallers, who for singers wish to pass,