 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
Epitaph upon his Bowels.
Ye Mortal Whigs, for Death prepare,For mighty Tapskies Guts lie here.
Will his great Name keep sweet d'ye think?
For certainly his Entrails stink.
Alas! 'tis but a foolish Pride
To outsin all Mankind beside,
When such Illustrious Garbage must
Be mingled with the common Dust.
False Nature! that could thus delude
The Cheater of the Multitude,
That put his Thoughts upon the wing,
And egg'd him on to be a King;
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His Noble great and little Guts.
Tapskie, who was a Man of Wit,
Had Guts for other uses fit;
Tho Fiddle-strings they might not be.
(Because he hated Harmony)
Yee for black Puddings they were good,
Their Master did delight in Blood;
Of this they should have drank their fill,
(King Cyrus did not fare so ill)
Poor Guts, could this have been your hap,
Sh. Bethel might have got a Snap:
But now at York his Guts must rumble,
Since you into a hole did tumble.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |