The poet now, with Discord’s clarion
Preludes the war we mean to carry on;
And sends abroad a PROCLAMATION
Against Perkinean conjuration;
Proves that we ought to hang the tractors,
On gibbet high, like malefactors,
And with them that pestiferous corps,
Who keep alive the paltry poor;
By reasons sound, as e’er were taken,
From Aristotle, Locke, or Bacon.