Ask not to know this man. If fame should speak His name in any metal, it would break. Two letters were enough the plague to tear Out of his grave, and poison every ear. A parcel of court-dirt, a heap, and mass Of all vice hurled together, there he was, Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all That thought can add, unthankful, the lay-stall Of putrid flesh alive! Of blood, the sink! And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink. |