Tell us what the pile contains? Many a head that holds no brains, These demoniacs let me dub With the name of Legion Club. Such assemblies, you might swear, Meet when butchers bait a bear: Such a noise, and such haranguing, When a brother thief is hanging; Such a rout and such a rabble Run to hear Jackpudding gabble. Could I from the building's top Hear the rattling thunder drop, While the devil upon the roof (If the devil be thunder-proof) Should with poker fiery red Crack the stones, and melt the lead; Drive them down on every skull, When the den of thieves is full; Quite destroy that harpies' nest; How might then our isle be blest! For divines allow, that God Sometimes makes the devil his rod; And the gospel will inform us, He can punish sins enormous. Yet should Swift endow the schools, For his lunatics and fools, With a rood or two of land, I allow the pile may stand. You perhaps will ask me, Why so? But it is with this proviso; Since the house is like to last, Let the royal grant be pass'd, That the club have right to dwell Each within his proper cell, With a passage left to creep in, And a hole above for peeping. Let them, when they once get in, Sell the nation for a pin; While they sit a-picking straws, Let them rave at making laws; Let them form a grand committee, How to plague and starve the city; Let them stare, and storm, and frown, When they see a clergy gown; Let them, with their gosling quills, Scribble senseless heads of bills. * * * * * Come, assist me, Muse obedient! Let us try some new expedient; Shift the scene for half an hour, Time and place are in thy power. Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me; I shall ask, and you instruct me. See, the Muse unbars the gate; Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! All ye gods who rule the soul; Styx, through Hell whose waters roll! Let me be allowed to tell What I heard in yonder Hell. Near the door an entrance gapes, Crowded round with antic shapes, Poverty, and Grief, and Care, Causeless Joy, and true Despair; Discord periwigg'd with snakes, See the dreadful strides she takes! By this odious crew beset, I began to rage and fret, And resolved to break their pates, Ere we entered at the gates; Had not Clio in the nick Whispered me, "Lay down your stick." What! said I, is this the madhouse? These, she answer'd, are but shadows, Phantoms bodiless and vain, Empty visions of the brain. In the porch Briareus stands, Shows a bribe in all his hands; Briareus the secretary, But we mortals call him Carey.[43] When the rogues their country fleece, They may hope for pence a-piece.