From the royal Kitchen 'Squire Pindar discarded, The Scullions and Cooks with Abuse quickly larded: But why, Master Pindar, the King shou'd'st thou spit On the rusty blunt Point of thy Birmingham Wit? If a L— on the Sovereign's Table was seen To shock the nice Eye of his delicate Queen; From thy own dirty Pate it probably hopp'd, Which, in Spite of a Wig, is with Vermin full cropp'd! Hence then, and no more thy Betters bespatter, Stay home, and lick clean thy own empty Platter. Or if chance to partake of Opie's good Cheer, Thy Friend's rustick *Manners facetiously jeer.
* Dr. W. ridicules Mr. O's Unpoliteness. Physician, heal thyself.
