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The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride; True is the charge, nor by themselves denied. Are they not then in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours and excise our brains.

With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.

Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.

Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.

With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.

As by the way of innuendo Lucus is made a non lucendo.

Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares, She blunder'd on some virtue unawares.

His voice no touch of harmony admits, Irregularly deep, and shrill by fits. The two extremes appear like man and wife Coupled together for the sake of strife.