Walpole, I thought not I should ever see

So mean a heart as thine has proved to be.

Thou who, in luxury nurst, behold’st with scorn

The boy, who friendless, fatherless, forlorn,

Asks thy high favour thou mayst call me cheat,

Say, didst thou never practise such deceit?

Who wrote Otranto? but I will not chide;

Scorn ‘’ll repay with scorn, and pride with pride.

Still, Walpole, still thy prosy chapters write,

And twaddling letters to some fair indite;

Laud all above thee, fawn and cringe to those

Who, for thy fame, were better friends than foes;

Still spurn the incautious fool who dares —

Had I the gifts of wealth and luxury shared,

Not poor and mean, Walpole! thou hadst not dared

Thus to insult. But I shall live and stand

By Rowley’s side, when thou art dead and damned.