To the "Foe to Tyrants."

Vile as they are, this lukewarm Tory crew Seem viler still, when they are prais'd by you; By you adorn'd, in yellow robes they shine, Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line. TRUE child of Dullness—eldest of her tribe— How couldst thou dream that thou wast worth a bribe? Ill-fated scribbler, with thy clumsy quill Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil, And round your neck the withe or halter twine, And be the office of the hangman thine. Have I from you purloin'd one shred of wit, Or did I imitate one line you writ? Peace to your works—'twere base to rob the dead, The clay cold offspring of your empty head. SCRIBBLER, retire—what madness would it be To point a cannon at a mite like thee! Such noxious vermin crawling from the shell, By squibs and crackers might be kill'd as well. BUT if you must torment the world with rhimes, (Since thou wert sent to scourge us for our crimes) In stupid odes indulge thy smoky wit, Dull lyrics would thy happy genius fit; With thy coarse white wash daub some scoundrel's face, Blockheads in power, or traitors in disgrace: To gain immortal praise I leave you free; Go—scratch and scribble unchastis'd by me. Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair, The ghosts of murder'd rhimes shall meet you there, Like rattling chains provoke incessant fears, And with eternal jinglings stun your ears.