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Th'Ambassador reply'd, “O Country Clown,
“Do you despise the Glories of a Crown,
“Unthinking Wretch, you're a wild Olive sure;
“Base born, of Bastard Kind, unfit for Power:
“May Lightnings blast thee, on thy barren Ground,
“Henceforth may never Fruit on thee be found.
“May Canker-Worms suck and corrupt thy Blood,
“And thou unfed thy self, be Vermin's Food:
“May Fairies hold their Synods round thy Trunk,
“And Night Hags ride upon thee when they're drunk.
“O may the Heav'n's Plague you till ye dy,
“With raging North Winds, and a lowring Sky;
“Witches with grisley Cheeks, and rueful old,
“Within thy hollow Trunk, their dark Cabals shall hold.