If I make free, tho' he's your friend, And sure we cannot want excuse, When CHURCHILL'S nam'd, for smart abuse— CHURCHILL! who ever loves to raise On slander's dung his mushroom bays: The priest, I grant, has something clever, A something, that will last for ever. Let him, in part, be made your pattern, Whose muse, now queen, and now a slattern, Trick'd out in ROSCIAD rules the roast, Turns trapes and trollop in the GHOST, By turns both tickles us, and warms, And, drunk or sober, has her charms.
