Clanks in your face his literary chain;
Stop, tyrants! who, for your peculiar gain,
By day and night the contents of his brain
drain.
He sows the seed, you gather in the crops;
You sack the till, and he supplies your shops;
You quaff champagne, while meanest malt and hops
Do scarcely once a fortnight enter Slop's
chops.
So wickedly does fortune treat our crew;