Is't your National Papers—press-razors,
Produced not to shave, but to sell—
Whose scribes might seem genuine blazers,
Did not conjurors spit fire as well?
Is't your Priests, with the gag and the blinders,
Which Church would fain use to tame Law:
Their pincers, for law-reason's grinders,
Their scissors, for lay-reason's claw?
Is't your Peasants, in feuds and in factions
Stark mad, for a nothing or name: