And floor'd the funny Chancellor, with all his Penny Show,
Who veers about to show the folk which way the wind doth blow,
And it's all for your comfort and joy.
Our most uncommon Commons, and our very peerless Peers,
In clearing off old scores, have burnt the house about their ears;
Of such a nest of phœnixes I own I had my fears,
But 'twas all for their comfort and joy.
Now let not those who've 'scaped my blows believe that I am fickle,
For many a "Pure," who looks demure, I've put a rod in pickle,
And if I'm here another year their backs I'll smartly tickle,