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Ye schemers and dreamers of politic things, Projecting the downfall of kingdoms and kings; Can your wisdom declare how this body is fed, When the members rebel and wage war with the head ?
Impounders, confounders, and heads of the law, I bring case in point, do not point out a flaw; If reason is treason, what plea shall I plead ? To your chief I appeal—for your chief has a head.
On Britannia's bosom sweet Liberty smil'd,
The parent grew strong while she foster'd the child,
Neglecting her offspring, a fever she bred,
Which contracted her limbs, and distracted her head.
Ye learned state doctors, your labors are vain, Proceeding by bleeding to settle her brain; Much less can your art the lost members restore, Amputation must follow—perhaps something more.
Pale Goddess of Whim ! when with cheeks lean or full, Thy influence seizes an Englishman's skull, He blunders, yet wonders his schemes ever fail, Tho' often mistaking the head for the tail.
Perry down, down, hey derrv down.