To Those Whom It May Concern

The sage that took the wrong sow by the ears, And independence claim'd for Vermonteers, Who from twelve numbers down to eight decreas'd, Is now your scribbler, and may serve for priest, To him apply, dear Timon, in distress, From him ask favours and to him confess, He'll pardon all your sins—ay, more than once, And will forgive you, even for being a dunce. WHEN first that slave of slaves began to write, Truth curs'd his pen, and reason took her flight, Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed, Black as his heart and empty as his head: Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear, The viper sicken'd in his native air. Then rush'd abroad, a Jesuit in disguise, Borne on the wings of malice, rage, and lies, To this new world a nuisance and a pest To curse his betters and abuse the best. THOU base born lump of impudence and dirt, With all the will but not the power to hurt; Whose barren soul each empty line reveals— Come, let me tie thee to my chariot wheels, And o'er the surface of this prickly ground Drag thy vile carrion carcase round and round, Or like a FELON, hang'd to after time, Be one more victim to the power of rhyme! BEAR me, ye gods, to some sequester'd place Where never rascal show'd his brazen face; Remove me far from all the rascal kind (Dullness with insolence forever join'd) To some retreat of solitude and rest— Nor let another pang disturb my breast, When I have wept to think the world shall know I had to combat with so mean a foe.