The Black Militia

These labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways,
With heavy, huge, repeated, flat, essays,
Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so dull,
And hem at every thump upon your skull.
These staunch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,
And honest folly echoes to the lie.
O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see
Thanking a villain for his probity,
Who stretches out a most respectful ear,
With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer.
It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's
Sincere encomium on his friend the fox,
Sole patron of his liberties and rights!
While graceless Reynard listens — till he bites.
As when the trumpet sounds, th'o'erloaded state
Discharges all her poor and profligate,
Crimes of all kinds dishonoured weapons wield,
And prisons pour their filth into the field,
Thus nature's refuse, and the dregs of men,
Compose the black militia of the pen.