As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
  So most grow infamous through love of praise. 
  But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,
  When those, who bring that incense, we despise? 
  For such the vanity of great and small,
  Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all. 
  Nor can even satire blame them; for ’tis true,
  They have most ample cause for what they do
  O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant
  A nurse of fools, to stock the continent. 
  Though Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,
  Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow
  The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
  Till I surpass in length my lawyer’s bill;
  A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn;
  Or, longer still, a Dutchman’s epigram. 
  When, cloy’d, in fury I throw down my pen,
  In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.

    See Tityrus, with merriment possest,
  Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest: 
  What need he stay? for when the jest is o’er,
  His teeth will be no whiter than before. 
  Is there of thee, ye fair! so great a dearth,
  That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth!

    Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;
  Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire: 
  Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;
  And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

    Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs;
  My lord has vapours, and my lady swears;
  Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,
  My lord wears breeches, and my lady’s kind.

    To show the strength, and infamy of pride,
  By all ’tis follow’d, and by all denied. 
  What numbers are there, which at once pursue,
  Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too? 
  Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
  And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;
  Makes his approach in modesty’s disguise,
  To win applause; and takes it by surprise. 
  “To err,” says he, “in small things, is my fate.” 
  You know your answer, “he’s exact in great”. 
  “My style”, says he, “is rude and full of faults.” 
  “But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!”
  That he wants algebra, he must confess;
  “But not a soul to give our arms success”. 
  “Ah! that’s an hit indeed,” Vincenna cries;
  “But who in heat of blood was ever wise? 
  I own ’twas wrong, when thousands called me back
  To make that hopeless, ill-advised attack;
  All say, ’twas madness; nor dare I deny;
  Sure never fool so well deserved to die.” 
  Could this deceive in others to be free,
  It ne’er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee! 
  Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,
  So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong. 
  Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;
  And haunt the court, without a prospect there. 
  Are these expedients for renown?  Confess
  Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.