And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,
Like engine, without break or driver, drove.
“Till when he ceased to dip in fortunes’s till,
Out came one cooked account—of our M. P.;
Another came—yet men scarce ventured, still,
To think their idol such a rogue could be.
“Until those figures set in sad array
Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn—
Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,
Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn.”