What's in this name of  that we should fear
To bring their vices to the public ear?
Flows not the honest blood of humble swains
Quick as the tide which swells a Monarch's veins?
Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow,
Cannot make Virtues in succession flow.
Would'st Thou, Proud Man, be safely plac'd above
The censure of the Muse, deserve her Love,
Act as thy Birth demands, as Nobles ought;
Look back, and by thy worthy Father taught,
Who  those Honours, Thou wert  to wear,
Follow his steps, and be his Virtue's heir.
But if, regardless of the road to Fame,
You start aside, and tread the paths of shame.
If such thy life, that should thy Sire arise,
The sight of such a Son would blast his eyes,
Would make him curse the hour which gave Thee birth,
Would drive him, shudd'ring, from the face of earth
Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead
In endless night to hide his rev'rend head;
If such thy life, tho' Kings had made thee more
Than ever King a scoundrel made before,
Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring,
Tho' God in vengeance had made Thee a King,
Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,
The Muse should drag thee trembling to the light,
Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare
To the keen question of the searching air.