I AM AN OAK, tho’ fall’n indeed!
Thou still a vile and skulking weed,
Rais’d by no merit of thine own,
But by the blast that laid me prone.
Say, if thou canst, what plant or tree,
Except a sycophant like thee,
Devoted to intrigue and strife,
Who’d e’er prefer a dastard’s life,
Preserv’d by guile and crafty saws,
To falling in a GLORIOUS CAUSE