Well, as I predicted that matters would be-- To the stamp-act succeeded a tax upon Tea: What chest-fulls were scattered, and trampled, and drowned, And yet the whole tax was but threepence per pound! May the hammer of Death on my noddle descend, And Satan torment me to time without end, If this was a reason to fly into quarrels, And feuds that have ruined our manners and morals; A parson himself might have sworn round the compass, That folks for a trifle should make such a rumpus, Such a rout as to set half the world in a rage, Make France, Spain, and Holland with Britain engage, While the Emperor, the Swede, the Russ, and the Dane, All pity John Bull--and run off with his gain. But this was the season that I must lament-- I first was a whig with an honest intent; Not a Yankee[218] among them talked louder or bolder, With his sword by his side, or his gun on his shoulder; Yes, I was a whig, and a whig from my heart, But still was unwilling with Britain to part-- I thought to oppose her was foolish and vain, I thought she would turn and embrace us again, And make us as happy as happy could be, By renewing the aera of mild Sixty-Three: And yet, like a cruel, undutiful son, Who evil returns for the good to be done, Unmerited odium on Britain to throw,[219] I printed some treason for Philip Freneau, Some damnable poems reflecting on Gage,[220] The King and his Council, and writ with such rage, So full of invective, and loaded with spleen, So sneeringly smart, and so hellishly keen, That, at least in the judgment of half our wise men, Alecto herself put the nib to his pen. * * * * *