Not so our Patrons — grave as grave can be,
They  They keep up
are a forward race, nor is it fit
That Men of fortune rank with men of Wit;
Wit if familiar made, will find her strength —
'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length.
'Tis well enough for  if Patrons give,
From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live.
Such is their language, and their practice such,
They promise little, and they give not much.
Let the weak  with prostituted strain,
Praise that proud SCOT, whom all good men disdain;
What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,
He may obtain a patent for the run
Of his Lord's kitchen, and have ample time,
With offal fed, to court the Cook in rime,
Or (if he strives true Patriots to disgrace)
May at the  Table get a place,
With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine,
And play at CRAMBO o'er his gill of wine.