Of the sharp, flat, and blood, natty crop, kiddy quiz;
I read as I walk, without study or plan,
The cunning, the weakness, and folly of man.
Yet my spleen never kicks at the whims that it meets,
For in oddity’s circle each gig a gig greets;
So I laugh and grow fat at the figures I see,
And they’re welcome to fatten by laughing at me.
Of the virtue and zeal of the ins and the outs,
After many years musing I’ve clear’d up all doubts;
The outs wou’d get in, if the ins wou’d get out,