Bursting with pride, the loathed impostume swells; Prick him, he sheds his venom straight, and smells. But 'tis so lewd a scribbler, that he writes With as much force to nature as he fights; Hardened in shame, 'tis such a baffled fop That every schoolboy whips him like a top. And, with his arm and head, his brain's so weak That his starved fancy is compelled to rake Among the excrements of others' wit To make a stinking meal of what they shit; So swine, for nasty meat, to dunghill run, And toss their gruntling snouts up when they've done. Against his stars the coxcomb ever strives, And to be something they forbid, contrives. With a red nose, splay foot, and goggle eye, A plowman's looby mien, face all awry, With stinking breath, and every loathsome mark, The Punchinello sets up for a spark. With equal self-conceit, too, he bears arms, But with that vile success his part performs That he burlesques his trade, and what is best In others, turns like Harlequin to jest. So have I seen, at Smithfield's wondrous fair, When all his brother monsters flourish there, A lubbard elephant divert the town With making legs, and shooting off a gun. Go where he will, he never finds a friend; Shame and derision all his steps attend. Alike abroad, at home, i' th' camp and Court, This Knight o' th' Burning Pestle makes us sport. |