The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/On the Irish Club

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YEe paltry underlings of state,
Ye senators, who love to prate;
Ye rascals of inferiour note,
Who for a dinner sell a vote;
Ye pack of pensionary peers,
Whose fingers itch for poets' ears;
Ye bishops, far remov'd from saints,
Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This summoning of blackguard boys?
Why so sagacious in your guesses?
Your effs, and tees, and arrs, and esses?
Take my advice; to make you safe,
I know a shorter way be half.
The point is plain; remove the cause;
Defend your liberties and laws.
Be sometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely despise champaign at court,
And choose to dine at home with port:
Let prelates, by their good behaviour,
Convince us they believe a Saviour;
Nor sell what they so dearly bought,
This country, now their own, for nought.
Ne'er did a true satirick muse
Virtue or Innocence abuse;
And 'tis against poetick rules
To rail at men, by nature fools:
But * * * * * * * * *
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