My Lord All-Pride.
BUrsting with Pride, the loath'd Impostume swells,
Pr-k him, he sheads his Venom strait, and smells;
But 'tis so lewd a Scribler, that he writes,
with as much forch to Nature, as he fights,
Hardned in shame, 'tis such a baffled Fop,
That ev'ry Scool-boy whips him like a Top:
And with his Arme, and Head, his Brains so weak,
That his starved fancy, is compell'd to take,
Among the Excrements of others wit,
To make a stinking Meal of what they shit.
So Swine, for nasty Meat, to Dunghil run,
And toss their gruntlinst Snowts up when they've done:
Again his Stars, the Coxcomb ever strives.
And to be something they forbid, contrives.
With a Red Nose, Splay Foot, and Goggle Eye,
A Plough Mans, looby Meene, Face all a wry,
With stinking Breath, and ev'ry loathsome mark,
The Punchianello, sets up for a Spark,
With equal self conceit too, he bears Arms,
But with that vile success, his part performs,