Good people, would you know the reason
I write at this unlucky season,
When all the nation is so poor
That few can keep above one whore,
Except the lawyers -- (whose large fees
Maintain as many as they please) --
"The translation itself is just as fiery:"
Ready to burst with vengeful ire,
That made his bloodshot eyes strike fire,
Atrides, with a vengeful scowl,
Replies, The devil fetch your soul!
I've a great mind, you lousy wizard,
To lay my fist across your mazzard.
Son of an ugly squinting bitch,
Pray who the pox made you a witch?
I don't believe, you mongrel dog,
You ken a handsaw from a hog;
Nor know, although you dare thus flounce,
How many f---s will make an ounce;