From the lash of so envied a foe.
'Eight hundred old plays thou declar'st thou hast read[[2]];
How could'st thou the public so cozen?
Yet the traces I see (spite of what thou hast said)
Of not many more than a dozen.
'If all thou hast dug, how could Farmer, my Tib,
Or Stevens, find gold in the mine?
Thy trade of attorney sure taught thee to fib,
And truth was no client of thine.
'And yet, to appease me for all thou hast done,