And if state-scratchers do condemn thy jests,
50For ruffling satins, and bespangled vests,
Tell them they're cozen'd and in vain they puff,
Thou neither aim'st at half-ell band or ruff:
And if thy lines perchance some ermines gash,
'Tis not thy fault, 'twas no intended lash.
Thy pencil limns Don Fuco's portraiture,
And only dost his native worth immure
Within these tilic rinds: nor is thy rage
Against the Cowlists of this youngest age.