A Wordsworthian Sonnet.
Oh! Bull, strong labourer, much enduring beast,
That with broad back, and sinewy shoulder strung,
Draggest the heavy wain of taxes, flung
In growing heap, from thy poor brethren fleeced.
Hadst thou a literary sense of shame,
How woulds’t thou crush, and toss, and rend, and gore,
The printing press, and hands that work therefore,
For the sad trash that issues from the same.
If they would print no other works than mine,