My Lord, quoth Guilt, this daring fiend
Won’t let us sin in private;
To his presumption there’s no end,
Both high and low he’ll drive at.
Last year he smoak’d the cleric[3] gown;
A D——ss now he’d sweat.
The insolent, for half a crown,
Would libel all the Great.
What I can do, his Lordship cries,
Command you freely may: