If rotten boroughs still their prices raise;
If greedy agents still their victims salt,
And foul corruption shines with sugary glaze.
Can Ballot-urn, where venal voters thrust
Their tickers, compensate for perjured breath?
Can candidates escape “down with the dust?”
As well might mortals hope to cheat grim Death.
Perhaps in yonder corner may be laid
Some tattered fragments of a former Bill;—
Dizzy’s, with fancy franchises o’erlaid,—