Classic Poem

A virgin poet was served up today,
Who till this hour ne'er cackled for a play:
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory boy,
But, like a girl whom several would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The King's House would instruct me, by the name:
There's loyalty to one: I wish no more—
A commonwealth sounds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious spirit should rebel,
Our sex with ease can every rising quell.
Then as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offence,
They save dull culprits who have murthered sense:
Though nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass,
The vehicle called faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the commonwealthsman's bribe,
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe:
Though void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood that knows the man will take it.
'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Theirs is the Pension Parliament of wit.
In city clubs their venom let 'em vent,
For there 'tis safe in its own element.
Here where their madness can have no pretence,
Let 'em forget themselves an hour in sense.
In one poor isle, why should two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can see:
In drink and drabs both sides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not stand.
Of this damned grievance every Whig complains,
They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains.
Meantime you see what trade our plots advance:
We send each year good money into France,
And they that know what merchandise we need
Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.