Classic Poem

Bursting with Pride, the loath'd Impostume swells,
Prick him, he sheds his Venom strait, and smells;
But tis soe Lewd a Scribler, that he writes,
With as much force to Nature, as he fights.
Harden'd in shame, tis such a Baffl'd Fopp,
That ev'ry Schoole-Boy, whips him like a Topp.
And with his Arme, and Head, his Brain's soe weake
That his starv'd Fancy, is compell'd to rake,
Among the Excrements of others Witt,
To make a stinking Meale of what they Shitt.
Soe Swine, for nasty Meat, to Dunghill runn,
And tosse their gruntling Snowts up, when theyve done.
Against his Starrs, 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 awry,
With stinking Breathe, and ev'ry Loathsome marke,
The Punch'anello, sets up for a Sparke.
With equall Self-conceit too, he beares Armes,
But with that vile successe, his part performes,
That he Burlesques his Trade, and what is best
In others, turnes like Harlequin to Jeast.
Soe have I seene at Smithfeilds wondrous Fair,
(When all his Brother-Monsters flourish there)
A Lubbard Elephant, divert the Town,
With makeing Leggs, and shooting off a Gun.
Goe 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.