You little scribbling beau,
What demon made you write?
Because to write you know
As much as you can fight.

For compliment so scurvy,
I wish we had you here;
We'd turn you topsy-turvy
Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on
The man and place we chose;
We're sure a single parson
Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us vassals,
Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
To silver clocks and tassels;
You would, you Thing of Things!

Because around your cane
A ring of diamonds is set;
And you, in some by-lane,
Have gain'd a paltry grisette;

Shall we, of sense refined,
Your trifling nonsense bear,
As noisy as the wind,
As empty as the air?

We hate your empty prattle;
And vow and swear 'tis true,
There's more in one child's rattle,
Than twenty fops like you.