There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, How they swagger from their garrison! Such a triplet could you tell Where to find on this side hell? Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, Keeper, see they have their payments; Every mischief's in their hearts; If they fail, 'tis want of parts. Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! Chairman to yon damned committee! Yet I look on thee with pity. Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? For thy horrid looks I own, Half convert me to a stone, Hast thou been so long at school, Now to turn a factious tool? Alma Mater was thy mother, Every young divine thy brother. Thou a disobedient varlet, Treat thy mother like a harlot! Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, Who are all grown reverend preachers! Morgan, would it not surprise one! Turn thy nourishment to poison! When you walk among your books, They reproach you with your looks. Bind them fast, or from their shelves They will come and right themselves; Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, All in arms prepare to back us. Soon repent, or put to slaughter Every Greek and Roman author. Will you, in your faction's phrase, Send the clergy all to graze, And, to make your project pass, Leave them not a blade of grass? How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, Were but you and I acquainted, Every monster should be painted: You should try your graving-tools On this odious group of fools: Draw the beasts as I describe them From their features, while I gibe them; Draw them like; for I assure you, You will need no _car'catura;_ Draw them so, that we may trace All the soul in every face. Keeper, I must now retire, You have done what I desire: But I feel my spirits spent With the noise, the sight, the scent. 'Pray be patient; you shall find Half the best are still behind: You have hardly seen a score; I can show two hundred more.' Keeper, I have seen enough.-- Taking then a pinch of snuff, I concluded, looking round them, 'May their god, the devil, confound them. Take them, Satan, as your due, All except the Fifty-two.' [1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor. ISAAC WATTS.