Classic Poem

Fain would the Muse record thy Crimes,
And leave them to succeeding Times;
But finds it difficult to trace,
The Vices of thy motley Race;
Whether thy Insolence and Pride,
Spring from the S — l Father's Side.
That Pedant, who with Rod in Hand,
Could, in his paultry School command,
And underneath his cruel Yoke;
Many a generous Spirit broke;
Who else were form'd in Camps to shine,
Or grace the Noble Patriot Line:
Or didst thou from thy Dam inherit,
Thy sordid avaricious Spirit,
Of whom I heard old SWIFT declare
So many Vices were her share,
That were her Sex created all,
Pure as the first before the Fall;
And but her Crimes thro' all distributed,
The best would merit to be gibbeted.
Thy Father he applauded next,
Studying a Wench more than a Text;
Who having got of Money store,
Lavishing all upon a Whore,
Was sent to Hell, his latest Journey,
By her base Brother an Attorney;
Such be thy Fate, thou Wretch accurs'd,
Or else with Spleen and Envy burst;
Or with thine Uncle, brave M'Faddin ,
Whose infamy thy Soul is clad in,
To free the suffering Stage and Nation,
Be doom'd like him to Transportation.
But who thy Destiny can alter?
Thy very Looks, presage a Halter.
Oh may I live to hail the Day,
When the glad Players shall survey,
Their Tyrant, stript of all Command,
High on the well fixt Ladder stand.
And taking thence, one glorious Swing,
How will they spout " God save the King? "
Then shall those Cloaths, in which disguise,
You'd seem a Lord to vulgar Eyes
Did not thy base and abject Mien,
Betray the Beggar's Brat within,
Be by thy Kinsman Hangman worn,
And still a Scoundrel Thief adorn.