Classic Poem

Painc, tho' thy Tongue may now run glibber,
Warm'd with thy independent Glow,
Thou art indeed, the boldest Fibber,
I ever knew or wish to know.
Here Page & Page, ev'n num'rous Pages,
Are void of Breeding, Sense or Truth,
I hope thou dont receive thy Wages,
As Tutor to our rising Youth.
Of female Manners never scribble,
Nor with thy Rudeness wound our Ear,
How e'er thy trimming Pen may quibble,
The Delicate — is not thy Sphere;
And now to prove how false thy Stories
By Facts, — which wont admit a Doubt
Know there are conscientious Tories
And one poor Whig at least without
Wilt thou permit the Muse to mention,
A Whisper circulated round,
" Let Howe encrease the Scribblers Pension
No more will Paine a Whig be found. " —
For not from Principle, but Lucre,
He gains his Bread from out the Fire,
Let Court & Congress, both stand neuter,
And the poor Creature must expire.