These things before-hand to yourself propose,
When you're about to visit one of those,
Who are call'd great; perhaps he's not within,
Or likely he's retir'd, nor to be seen:
Perhaps his porter, some rough sturdy boor,
Amongst the beggars thrusts you from the door,
Or when, at length, you have admittance got,
His honour's busy, or he minds you not.
But if in spight of each impediment,
In spight of slights, affronts, you still are bent
To make this visit, know you must dispense
With such small accidents, nor take offence,
When you're despis'd, nor with the vulgar cry,
'Tis not so great a matter, what care I?
In whom you through the visard may discern
(Howe'er they strive to hide it) a concern;
Who, like the fox in Aesop, seem to set
Those grapes at naught, as sour, they cannot get.