I had forgotten clean.” “Naie,” quoth the Clerk, “both horse and foot To hide was thine intent, Ne seely wight be ye, but didst With good advisament.[30] “Surcharge, surcharge, good Taxing-man, Anon our seals we fix, Of sterling pounds, Lord Duke, you pay Three hundred thirty-six.”[31] EPIGRAM ON THE PARIS LOAN,[32] CALLED THE LOAN UPON ENGLAND. The Paris cits, a patriotic band, Advance their cash on British freehold land. But let the speculating rogues beware— They’ve bought the _skin_, but who’s to kill _the bear_? No. IX. Jan. 8, 1798. ODE TO ANARCHY. BY A JACOBIN. (BEING AN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE XXXV. BOOK I.) _O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium!_ Goddess, whose dire terrific power Spreads from thy much-loved Gallia’s plains Where’er her blood-stain’d ensigns lower, Where’er fell Rapine stalks, or barb’rous Discord reigns! Thou, who canst lift to fortune’s height The wretch by truth and virtue scorn’d, And crush with insolent delight, All whom true merit rais’d, or noble birth adorn’d! Thee, oft the murd’rous band implores, Swift darting on its hapless prey: Thee, wafted from fierce Afric’s shores, The Corsair Chief invokes to speed him on his way. Thee, the wild Indian Tribes revere; Thy charms the roving Arab owns; Thee, kings, thee tranquil nations fear, The bane of social bliss, the foe to peaceful thrones. For, soon as thy loud trumpet calls To deadly rage, to fierce alarms, Just Order’s goodly fabric falls, Whilst the mad people cries, “To arms! to arms!” With thee Proscription, child of strife, With Death’s choice implements, is seen, Her Murderer’s gun, Assassin’s knife, And, “last not least in love,” her darling _Guillotine_. Fond Hope is thine,—the hope of Spoil, And Faith,—such faith as ruffians keep: They prosper thy destructive toil, That makes the Widow mourn, the helpless Orphan weep. Then false and hollow friends retire, Nor yield one sigh to soothe despair; Whilst crowds triumphant Vice admire, Whilst Harlots shine in robes that deck’d the Great and Fair. Guard our famed Chief to Britain’s strand! Britain, our last, our deadliest foe: Oh, guard his brave associate band! A band to slaughter train’d, and “nursed in scenes of woe”.