Pocket my poem, and in haste depart;
Resolv’d no more to offer up my wit,
Where footmen in the seat of critics sit.
Is there a Lord whose great unspotted soul,
Not places, pensions, ribbons can controul;
Unlac’d, unpowder’d, almost unobserv’d,
Eats not on silver while his train are starv’d;
Who, tho’ to nobles or to kings ally’d,
Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride;
With merit humble, and with greatness free,