Thou thing accursed, of parents dread begot,
And with thy selfish lot
Betake thee where my eyes shall see thee less;
For, sprung from such a race,
Ennui thy mother, and thy father Vice,
Thou never couldst be nice.
Begone, where I no more shall see thy face.
Come, goddess of another sort,
Yclep’d by men and mortals, Sport!
Come, offspring of a noble pair.