Travestie
Air.
Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground,
Wilkes, and all his free-born crew;
Within our pale no room is found,
Ye modern Algernons, for you.
Mute be the bold Alcaic strain
Of liberty, that spurns a chain,
Nor in these pliant courtly bow’rs
Let harsh Phillippic weeds choke adulation’s flowers.