The Village and The Newspaper

by George Crabbe

Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.

Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose

These rival sheets of politics and prose.

First, from each brother’s hoard a part they draw,

A mutual theft that never feared a law;

Whate’er they gain, to each man’s portion fall,

And read it once, you read it through them all:

For this their runners ramble day and night,

To drag each lurking deed to open light;

For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,