Though the Great Ones contrive to lose nothing by it,
Yet we who have little are sure to be bit,
Good Lord, deliver us!
From Taxes Assess’d, now rais’d at a nod,
While Inspectors rule o’er us with their iron rod,
And expect homage paid them like some demi-god,
Good Lord, deliver us!
From Forestallers, Regraters, and all that curs’d train,
Who, to swell out their bags, will hoard up the grain,
Against which we cry out with our might and main,