Will be, their forming victims for my knife.
Now, John,—not Sir John Ross—I mean John Bull
Thou silly, soft, good-natured, guileless gull!
Why wilt thou let each knave enrich his nest
With treasures pilfered from thy downy breast?
Pill-bolting glutton of all sorts of trash!
In jest or earnest needing still the lash,
Thy cure (no sinecure) will keep, I fear,
My rod in pickle for another year.
