Let them with their gofling quills
Scribble fenfelefs heads of bills.
We may, while they ftrain their throats,
Wipe our a-s with their votes.
Let Sir T-m*, that rampant afs,
Stuff his guts with flax and grafs;
But before the priest he fleeces
Tear the Bible all to pieces:
At the parfons, Tom, holloo, boy,
Worthy offspring of a shoeboy,
Footman, traitor, vile feducer,
Perjur'd rebel, brib'd accufer;
Lay thy paltry privilege afide,
Sprung from Papifts, and a regicide;
Fall a working like a mole,
Raife the dirt about your hole.
Come affift me, mufe obedient, Let us try fome new expedient; Shift the fcene for half an hour, Time and place are in thy pow'r, Thither, gentle mufe, conduct me: I fhall afk, and you inftruct me.
See, the mufe unbars the gate ! Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!
All ye gods, who rule the foul *, Styx, through hell whofe waters roll! Let me be allow'd to tell
What I heard in yonder hell.
Sir Thomas Pft, a P- -C- -r of Ireland, and fon to the
informer of that name.
Di, quibus imperium eft animarum, &c.
Sit miki fas audita loqui.
Near the door an entrance gapes †,
Crouded round with antic fhapes,
Poverty, and Grief, and Care,
Causeless joy, and, and true Despair.
Difcord periwig'd with fnakes,
See the dreadful ftride she takes
By this odious crew befet,
I began to rage and fret,
And refolv'd to beak their pates ‡,
Ere we enter'd at the gates;
Whisper'd me, Lay down your stick.
What, faid I, is this the mad-house?
Thefe, fhe anfwer'd, are but shadows,
Phantoms bodilefs and vain,
Empty vifions of the brain.
In the porch Briareus ftands, Shews a bribe in all hands ; Briareus the fecretary,
But we mortals call him C―y.
When the rogues their country fleece,
They may hope for pence a piece.
Clio, who had been fo wife
To put on a fool's difguife,
To befpeak fome approbation,
And be thought a near relation,
When she faw three hundred brutes
All involv'd in wild difputes,
Roaring till their lungs were fpent,
Privilege of parliament,
Now a new misfortune feels,
Dreading to be laid by th' heels.
Virg. Æn. lib. 2.
Ib. lib. 6.
Had the flown but o'er the top,
She had felt her pinions drop,
And by exhalations dire,
Though a goddess, must expire.
In a fright the crept away;
Bravely I refolv'd to stay.
When I faw the keeper frown,`
Tipping him with half a crown,
Now, faid I, we are alone,
Name your heroes one by one.
Who is that hell-featur'd brawler,
Is it Satan? No, 'tis Wr.
In what figure can a bard dress
Jack the grandfon of Sir Hs?
Honeft keeper, drive him further,
In his looks are hell and murther;
See the fcowling vifage drop,
Just as when he murder'd TP.
Keeper, fhew me where to fix
Tie 'em, keeper, in a tether,
Let 'em arve and ftink together;
Both are apt to be unruly,
Lash 'em daily, lafh 'em duly;
Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Scorpion-rods perhaps may tame them.
Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,
Sweetly fnoring in his cloak.
Who is he? "Tis humdrum W.
Half encompass'd by his kin :
There obferve the tribe of B-h-m,
For he never fails to bring 'em;
While he fleeps the whole debate,
They fubmiffive round him wait;
Yet would gladly fee the hunks
In his grave, and fearch his trunks.
See, they gently twitch his coat,
Juft to yawn, and give his vote,
Always firm in his vocation,
Fer the c
Thofe are As Jack and Bob,
First in ev'ry wicked job,
Son and brother to a queer
Brainfick brute, they call a peer.
We must give them better quarter,
For their ancestor trod mortar,
And at H-th to boaft his fame,
On a chimney cut his name.
There fits C-nts, D-ks, and H-n,
How they fwagger from the garrifon.
Such a triplet could you tell
Where to find on this fide hell?
H——n, and D—ks, and C —nts,
Keeper, fee they have their payments.
Ev'ry mifchief's in their hearts;
If they fail, 'tis want of parts.
Blefs us, M-n! art thou there, man?
Blefs mine eyes! art thou the chairman !
Chairman to your damn'd committee !
Yet I look on thee with pity.
Dreadful fight! what learn'd
Metamorphos'd to a Gorgon!
For thy horrid looks, I own,
Half convert me to a ftone :
Haft thou been fo long at fchool,
Now to turn a factious tool?
Alma mater was thy mother,
Ev'ry young divine thy brother.
Thou a difobedient varlet,
Treat thy mother like a harlot !
Thou, ungrateful to thy teachers,
Who are all grown rev'rend preachers!
M-
would it not furprise one?
Turn thy nourishment to poifon !
When you walk among your books,
They reproach you with their looks;
Bind them faft, or from their shelves
They will come, and right themselves:
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,
All in arms prepare to back us:
Soon repent, or put to flaughter
Ev'ry Greek and Roman author.
Will you, in your faction's phrase,
Send the clergy all to grafe;
And, to make your project pafs,
Leave them not a blade of grafs ?
How I want thee, hum'rous Hogarth!
Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art;
Were but you and I acquainted,
Ev'ry monfter fhould be painted:
You fhould try your graving tools
On this odious group of fools;
Draw the beafts as I defcribe them
From their features, while I gibe them;
|