Unform'd in Nature's Shop, while Crassus lay,
A cumbrous Heap of coarse neglected Clay,
Pray, Madam, says the Foreman of the Trade,
What of yon paultry Rubbish must be made?
For it's too gross, says he, and unrefin'd,
To be the Carcass of a thinking Mind;
Then it's too lumpish and too stiff to make
A Fop, a Beau, a Witling, or a Rake;
Nor is it for a Lady's Footman fit,
For Ladies Footmen must have Sense and Wit;
A Warrior must be vigilant and bold,
And therefore claims a brisk and active Mould;
A Statesman must be skill'd in various Arts,
A Strumpet must have Charms, a Pimp have Parts.
A Lawyer, without Craft, will get no Fees--
This Matter therefore will make none of these;
In short, I plainly think it good for nought;
But, Madam, I desire your better Thought.

Why, Tom, says she, in a disdainful Tone,
Amongst the Sweepings let it then be thrown,
Or--make a Parson of the useless Stuff,
'Twill serve a preaching Blockhead well enough.