If you say this is hard on a man that is reckon'd
That sergeant at law whom we call Kite the Second,
You mistake; for a slave, who will coax his superiours,
May be proud to be licking a great man's posteriours.
Knock him down, &c.
What care we how high runs his passion or pride?
Though his soul he despises, he values his hide;
Then fear not his tongue, or his sword, or his knife;
He'll take his revenge on his innocent wife.
Knock him down, down, down, keep him down.
ON THE
ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL, AND BETTESWORTH.
DEAR Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move?
The world is in doubt, whether hatred or love;
And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,
They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite.
You certainly know, though so loudly you vapour,
His spite cannot wound, who attempted the Drapier.
Then, prithee, reflect, take a word of advice;
And, as your old wont is, change sides in a trice:
On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way;
And say of the man what all honest men say.
But if, still obdurate, your anger remains,
If still your foul bosom more rancour contains;
