Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/222

 When she saw three hundred brutes All involv'd in wild disputes, Roaring till their lungs were spent, , Now a new misfortune feels, Dreading to be laid by th' heels. Never durst a Muse before Enter that infernal door; Clio, stifled with the smell, Into spleen and vapours fell, By the Stygian steams that flew From the dire infectious crew. Not the stench of Lake Avernus Could have more offended her nose; Had she flown but o'er the top, She had felt her pinions drop, And by exhalations dire, Though a goddess, must expire. In a fright she crept away; Bravely I resolv'd to stay. When I saw the keeper frown, Tipping him with half a crown, Now, said I, we are alone, Name your heroes one by one. Who is that hell-featur'd brawler? Is it Satan? No; 'tis Waller. In what figure can a bard dress Jack the grandson of sir Hardress? Honest keeper, drive him further, In his looks are Hell and murder; See the scowling visage drop, Just as when he murder'd T—p. Keeper, show me where to fix On the puppy pair of Dicks: By