LAWYER FILSON, Or the Spectacl'd Pleader

When British politicks ran furious high, The dastard sons of slav'ry cast an eye— A blasting eye!—on infant freedom's cause, And secret sought the tyrant's mean applause: Those secret enemies were worst of all, We little fear'd the cannons pointed ball— Now we should favour those that rais'd the state, Nor suffer tories freely to debate— Then cease on W—n, favours to bestow, For all the city knows he was our foe.