"What the villain likes worse We'll vomit his purse And make it the guineas disgorge, For your Raphaels and Rubens We would not give twopence; Stick, stick to the pictures of George." The following is on "The New Coalition" between Fox and Horne Tooke. _Fox._ When erst I coalesced with North And brought my Indian bantling forth In place--I smiled at faction's storm, Nor dreamt of radical reform. _Tooke._ While yet no patriot project pushing Content I thumped old Brentford's cushion, I passed my life so free and gaily, Not dreaming of that d--d Old Bailey. _Fox._ Well, now my favourite preacher's Nickle, He keeps for Pitt a rod in pickle; His gestures fright the astonished gazers, His sarcasms cut like Packwood's razors. _Tooke._ Thelwall's my name for state alarm; I love the rebels of Chalk Farm; Rogues that no statutes can subdue, Who'd bring the French, and head them too. _Fox._ A whisper in your ear John Horne, For one great end we both were born, Alike we roar, and rant and bellow-- Give us your hand my honest fellow. _Tooke._ Charles, for a shuffler long I've known thee, But come--for once I'll not disown thee, And since with patriot zeal thou burnest, With thee I'll live--or hang in earnest. But the most celebrated of these poems is "The Friend of Humanity, and The Knife-Grinder"-- _Friend of Humanity._ Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order, Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches! Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road, What hard work 'tis crying all day, "knives and Scissors to grind, O!" Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyranically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney? Was it the squire for killing of his game? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit? (Have you not read the "Rights of Man" by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. _Knife-grinder._ Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir; Only last night a-drinking at the 'Chequers,' This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice, Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence, But for my part I never love to meddle With politics, Sir. _Friend of Humanity._ I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d----d first! Wretch! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeance!