Classic Poem

I dreamed that, buried in my fellow clay,
Close by a common beggar's side I lay;
And as so mean a neighbour shocked my pride,
Thus, like a corpse of consequence, I cried:
‘Scoundrel, begone, and henceforth touch me not;
More manners learn, and at a distance rot.’
‘How, scoundrel!’ in a haughtier tone cried he:
‘Proud lump of dirt, I scorn thy words and thee.
Here all are equal, now thy case is mine:
This is my rotting-place, and that is thine.’