A little Shrub growing by

Ask not to know this Man. If fame should speak
His name in any metal, it would break.
Two letters were enough the plague to tear
Out of his grave, and poison every ear.
A parcel of Court-dirt, a heap, and mass
Of all vice hurl'd together, there he was,
Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all
That thought can add, unthankful, the lay-stall
Of putrid flesh alive! of blood the sink!
And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink.