Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/22

You then may boldly go in quest
To find the Grub street poets' nest;
What spunging house, in dread of jail,
Receives them, while they wait for bail;
What alley they are nestled in,
To flourish o'er a cup of gin;
Find the last garret where they lay,
Or cellar where they starve to day.
Suppose you had them all trepann'd,
With each a libel in his hand,
What punishment would you inflict?
Or call them rogues, or get them kickt?
These they have often try'd before;
You but oblige them so much more;
Themselves would be the first to tell,
To make their trash the better sell.
You have been libell'd — Let us know,
What fool officious told you so?
Will you regard the hawker's cries,
Who in his titles always lies?
Whatever the noisy scoundrel says,
It might be something in your praise:
And praise bestow'd in Grub street rhymes
Would vex one more a thousand times.
Till criticks blame, and judges praise,
The poet cannot claim his bays.
On me when dunces are satirick,
I take it for a panegyrick.
Hated by fools, and fools to hate,
Be that my motto, and my fate.

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