The Rich Scorner.
I
What? shall thy Dogs more courteous
Be, than thyself, to Lazarus?
Shall their Tongues court his Sores, and thine mean while
His Misery revile?
Strange Metamorphosis! which thus doth make
The Master strive to bark, the Dogs to speak.
II
Take heed: the Play may soon be done:
For in Life's Comedy not one
Of all the Acts but well may be the last.
O do but then forecast
What thy high Part will prove, when thou shalt be
Quite level'd by the just Catastrophe.
III
May not thine Exit follow'd be
With hellish Hissings? May not he
His Plaudit find clap'd by fair Angels' Wings?
Come, come, great Sir, these things
Are not vain Fancy's Froth; Life, tho' it be
A Play, will prove a real History.
