Should we by stiff Tom Thimble's faction fall,
Lord, with what noise
The Coffee throats would bellow, and the Ball
O' the Change rejoice,
And with the company of Pinner's Hall
Lift up their voice!
Once the head's gone, the good cause is secure;
The members cannot long resist our power.
Crop not their humours; let the wits proceed
Till they have thrown
Their venom up; and made themselves indeed
Rare fops o'ergrown:
Let them on nasty garbage prey and feed,
Till all is done;
And, by thy great resentment, think it fit
To crush their hopes, as humble as their wit.
Consider the occasion, and you'll find
Yourself severe,
And unto rashness much more here inclined,
By far, than they're:
Consider them as in their proper kind,
'Tween rage and fear,
And then the reason will appear most plain,--
A worm that's trod on will turn back again.
What if they censure without brain or sense,
'Tis now the fashion;
Each giddy fop endeavours to commence
A reformation.
Pardon them for their native ignorance,
And brainsick passion;
For, after all, true men of sense will say,--
Their works can never parallel thy play.
'Twere fond to pamper spleen, 'cause owls detest
The light of day;
Or real nonsense, which endures no test,
Condemns thy play.
Lodge not such petty trifles in thy breast,
But bar their sway;
And let them know, that thy heroic bays
Can scorn their censure, as it doth their praise.
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