Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/226

If he, of all the heroes of his line
Which in the register of story shine,
Can offer nothing to the world's regard,
But mouldy parchments which the worms have spared?
If sprung, as he pretends, of noble race,
He does his own original disgrace,
And swollen with selfish vanity and pride,
To greatness has no other claim beside,
But squanders life, and sleeps away his days,
Dissolved in sloth, and steeped in sensual ease?
⁠Meanwhile, to see how much the arrogant
Boasts the false lustre of his high descent,
You'd fancy him comptroller of the sky,
And framed by Heaven of other clay than I.
⁠Tell me, great hero, you that would be thought
So much above the mean and humble rout,
Of all the creatures which do men esteem?
And which would you yourself the noblest deem?
Put case of horse: No doubt, you'll answer straight,
The racer which has oftenest won the plate;
Who full of mettle, and of sprightly fire,
Is never distanced in the fleet career;
Him all the rivals of Newmarket dread,
And crowds of venturers stake upon his head.
But if the breed of Dragon, often cast,
Degenerate, and prove a jade at last,
Nothing of honour, or respect, we see,
Is had of his high birth, and pedigree;
But, maugre all his great progenitors,
The worthless brute is banished from the course,
Condemned for life to ply the dirty road,
To drag some cart, or bear some carrier's load.
⁠Then how can you, with any sense, expect
That I should be so silly to respect
The ghost of honour perished long ago,
That's quite extinct, and lives no more in you?
Such gaudy trifles with the fools may pass,
Caught with mere show, and vain appearances;