The Cart address’d—“Thou low-liv’d thing— “Faugh! what a horrid scent you bring— “Do, pray be gone—nor longer hurt “My nose refin’d—with filthy dirt— “But t’other day, your horse’s heels “Bespatter’d my new painted wheels— “Begone thou wretch—go, carry hay, “Your dung, your straw, your gravel—clay— “Keep distance due—nor dare approach “The presence of your Mailer’s Coach—”
With modest tone, the Cart replied, “Thou gaudy thing! I spurn thy pride. “Yet, pompous gewgaw! know from me, “My labour’s the support of thee!— “Did I not early toil, and late, “Thou soon wouldst drop thy boasted state— “Did I not groan beneath manure, “The equipage wou’d not be sure— “And should I not the mart attend, “Thy dignity wou’d have an end— “I grant, thou hast some little use; “But why throw out such low abuse? “Learn reason—act thy proper part— “We both are servants—Coach or Cart.”
