The Unbeloved
Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C—ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C—gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van’s beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for 't,
I could never love thee, H—t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object,—
Dear to neither prince, nor subject;—
Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf
Fastning on the skin of Guelph,
Thou, thou must, surely, loathe thyself.
