Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/87

Rh Thou champion for the commonweal: Nor on a theme like this repine, For once to wet thy pen divine: Bestow that libeller a lash, Who daily vends seditious trash: Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, But in the praise of virtue is dumb: That scribbler lash, who neither knows The turn of verse, nor style of prose; Whose malice, for the worst of ends, Would have us lose our English friends; Who never had one public thought, Nor ever gave the poor a groat. One clincher more, and I have done, I end my labours with a pun. Jove send this Nightingale may fall, Who spends his day and night in gall!

Ee paltry underlings of state, Ye senators, who love to prate; Ye rascals of inferiour note, Who for a dinner sell a vote; Ye pack of pensionary peers, Whose fingers itch for poets' ears; Ye bishops, far remov'd from saints, Why all this rage? Why these complaints? Why