And strive to purify thy fame
From stains that now defile thy name.
Hast thou all sense of justice lost,
Great Monarch of the Penny Post?
Thou takest care, O Rowland Hill!
Thy own big-bellied purse to fill;
But woe betide the hapless wight,
If thou canst nibble at his mite.
Is not thy service rather dear,
At fifteen hundred pounds a year?