A Humble Attempt at Scurrility - 39
What won’t pass for Madeira will for Fyall.
If Wines adulterate his Coffers fill,
He values not how many they may kill.
Span’ards! beware, and with him deal no further,
Lest his Adultery should prove your Murther.—
Thrice happy Boys, whom Daddy loves so well,
To make ye rich, he’s riding Post to H—
And you, sweet Youths! will follow his Example,
And under Foot, all Truth and Virtue trample.
V.
Make room! make room! for blund’ring Willy’s GUTS
Mark his unmeaning Phiz, see how he struts!
Nature thy Wisdom’s great, who hast thought fit
To give him Wealth to cover Want of Wit.
VI.
Here comes old Drip-Pan fam’d for his Deceit,
Who in his Sugar never gave good Weight.
In him no Truth, no Honesty or Trust is,
His Rogu’ry unfits him for Ch—f J—ce.
VII.
A driv’ling Fool is now brought on the Stage,
Who, tho’ in Years advanc’d is not of Age.
Had Busby oft’ner lash’d this Blockhead’s Breech
He might have taught him Spelling, and eight Parts of Speech;
But now alas! (so void is he of Sense,)
He knows not Grammar or his Accidence:
And all his little Reading at the School
Renders him only an accomplish’d Fool.
Go Hog! Go Home! and wallow in your Stye,
And undisturb’d eat Tripe and Oyster-Pye.
VIII.
Here comes Will Epicure, that Kitchen Cot,
Whose Pride boils over, like a Porridge Pot,
