And is not Jaques himself as bad,
Who took a watchmaker for dad,
  Our patience to abuse?

At home, if curious to know
The parent-stocks of So-and-so,
  We'll find the bad turn'd worse;
Milton, for all his epic fire,
Claims but a scriv'ner for his sire—
  And he to write blank verse!

Some folks affirm the proof is full,
That Shakspeare senior dealt in wool—
  Let's hope it is the case:
For, though one scorns in fleece to deal,
Were he a butcher^[1] all must feel
  'Twould his poor son disgrace.

I'm glad to find there is a doubt
From what trunk Chaucer was a sprout;—
  A noble one some say:
But whispers go, that Chaucer's father
A vintner was—or cobler rather—
  Hence his French name—Chaucier.

In short, the man of generous mind
Who views the world, must loathe his kind;
  Such facts his feelings hurting:
The elder Pope, whose boy wrote satires,
Kept a cheap warehouse next a hatter's,
  Where he sold Irish shirting!

Nought then remains, but hope—which still
Lurks, as of old, behind each ill,
  Close to the box's bottom:
And, after all, the hazard runs,
That, though they're all their mothers' sons,
  Their fathers mayn't have got 'em!