From Tory Hyde, raised to a chit of state;
In chariot now, Elijah-like, he's hurled
To the upper empty regions of the world.
The airy thing cuts through the yielding sky,
And as it goes does into atoms fly;
While we on earth see, with no small delight,
The bird of prey changed to a paper kite;
With drunken pride and rage he did so swell,
The hated thing without compassion fell;