Who weary of domestic cares being grown, and yet, like children, freighted when alone, (detesting books) still hunt, or Hawk, or play, and in laborious trifles wast the day, are liked by you, their actions still approved, and if they're rich, are sure to be beloved. These are the Props, the glory of the State, and on their nod depends the nation's fate,these weave the nets, where little flies betrayed, are victims to relentless justice made, while they themselves contemn the Snares that they have laid,as bonds too weak such mighty men to hold as scorn to be by any laws controlled. Physicians with hard Words and haughty looks, and promised health, bait their close-covered Hooks, like birds of prey, while they your gold can scent, you are their care, their utmost help is lent, but when your guineas cease, you to the spaw are sent, yet still you court 'em, think you cannot die if you've a Son of esculapius by.

The tradesmen you caress, although' you know they wealthy by their cheats and flattering grow, you seem to credit every word they say,and as they sell, with the same conscience pay, nay to the mob, those dregs of humane kind, those animals you slight, you're wondrous kind, to them you crying, and tho' they are your sport, yet still you fawn, and still their favor court. Thus on each other daily you impose, and all for wit, and dexterous cunning goes. 'Tis we alone hard Measure still must find, but spite of you, we'll to our selves be kind, your censures slight, your little tricks despise, and make it our whole business to be wise. The mean low trivial cares of life disdain, and read and think, and think and read again, and on our minds bestow the utmost Pain. Our souls with strictest morals we'll adorn, and all your little arts of wheedling Scorn.