  BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. I. I ever at college From commoners shrank, Still craving the knowledge Of people of rank: In my glass, my lord's ticket I eagerly stuffed; And all call'd me "Riquet," The man with the Tuft. II. My patron! most noble! Of highest degree! Thou never canst probe all My homage for thee! Thy hand—oh! I'd lick it, Though often rebuff'd; And still I am "Riquet," The man with the Tuft! III. Too oft the great, shutting Their doors on the bold, Do deeds that are cutting, Say words that are cold! Through flattery's wicket My body I've stuff'd, And so I am "Riquet," The man with the Tuft! IV. His lordship's a poet, Enraptured I sit; He's dull—(and I know it)— I call him a wit! His fancy, I nick it, By me he is puff'd. And still I am "Riquet," The man with the Tuft! |
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