"Is this the Demon, the sworn foe of light,
Cursed by the beauteous Wanderers of the Night,
Whose soul in Misery's moan a music hears;
And, Toad-like, feeds its poison on her tears?

"Is this th' Informer that, with bellowing breath,

To whips and jails each Son of Freedom dooms: Whose life (misnomer'd life) is death, rank death; Putridity, the noisome stench of tombs ?"

Such is the cry of London, luckless Reeves,
In language coarse, not good enough for thieves.
Yet, man, despair not: Courts can set thee free;
And Courts are known to pity Rogues like thee.

ΤΟ

THE LIVERY OF LONDON;

ON THEIR

PETITION TO HIS MAJESTY, FOR KICKING OUT HIS WORTHY

REPORT OF HIS ELEVATION TO THE IMPORTANT DIGNITY OF A PRIVY COUNSELLOR.

-Optat ephippia Bos.

He becomes Honours as a Sow does a Saddle.

PROVERB.

TO WHICH IS ADDED

A JEREMIAD TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ.

ODE

TO

THE LIVERY OF LONDON.

WHY, where the devil are ye rushing?

Thus to Saint James's rudely pushing,

To force the King to turn out Pitt, poor youth!
The open Jenkinson, the blushful Rose;
Dundas too, on whom Heaven bestows
Cart-loads of modesty and truth!

If aught I know of Queens and Kings,
Their Graces will do no such things.-

And who are you, in impudence so strong?
Know ye the reverence due to Thrones?
Down, knaves, upon your marrow-bones;
As Princes never yet were in the wrong.

Ye think ye make a King and Queen
As Crispin makes a Shoe, I ween;

And think, like humble Shoes, too, ye may wear 'em: