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Ye tinkling twisters of malignant rhyme,
Ye Hunts and Cobbetts who purvey for crime,

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Ye Shiels and Connells—all ye remnant vile,
That lie for lucre, and subsist on guile,—
Can aught of patriotic fervour grace
The heart-corruptions of your reptile race?
Will the foul frothings of ignoble spite
Protect your country, or the freeman right?
Go!—dip your nasty quills in Grub-Street mire,
Traduce for malice, and lampoon for hire;
Cling to the cursed columns that ye scrawl,
Like bloated beetles on a slime-lick'd wall,—
There mask the foulness of your covert aim,
And strut in all the energy of shame!