Let Sir Tom,[4] that rampant ass,
Stuff his guts with flax and grass;
But before the priest he fleeces,
Tear the Bible all to pieces: 
At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy,
Worthy offspring of a shoeboy,
Footman, traitor, vile seducer,
Perjured rebel, bribed accuser,
Lay thy privilege aside,
From Papist sprung, and regicide;
Fall a-working like a mole,
Raise the dirt about thy hole. 
  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:[5]
Styx, through Hell whose waters roll! 
Let me be allow’d to tell
What I heard in yonder Hell. 
  Near the door an entrance gapes,[6]
Crowded round with antic shapes,
Poverty, and Grief, and Care,
Causeless Joy, and true Despair;
Discord periwigg’d with snakes,’[7]
See the dreadful strides she takes! 
  By this odious crew beset,[8]
I began to rage and fret,
And resolved to break their pates,
Ere we enter’d at the gates;
Had not Clio in the nick[9]
Whisper’d me, “Lay down your stick.” 
What! said I, is this a mad-house? 
These, she answer’d, are but shadows,
Phantoms bodiless and vain,
Empty visions of the brain. 
  In the porch Briareus stands,[10]
Shows a bribe in all his hands;
Briareus the secretary,
But we mortals call him Carey.[11]
When the rogues their country fleece,
They may hope for pence a-piece. 
  Clio, who had been so wise
To put on a fool’s disguise,
To bespeak some approbation,
And be thought a near relation,
When she saw three hundred[12] brutes
All involved in wild disputes,
Roaring till their lungs were spent,
PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT,
Now a new misfortune feels,
Dreading to be laid by th’ heels. 
Never durst a Muse before
Enter that infernal door;
Clio, stifled with the smell,
Into spleen and vapours fell,
By the Stygian steams that flew
From the dire infectious crew. 
Not the stench of Lake Avernus
Could have more offended her nose;
Had she flown but o’er the top,
She had felt her pinions drop. 
And by exhalations dire,
Though a goddess, must expire. 
In a fright she crept away,
Bravely I resolved to stay. 
When I saw the keeper frown,
Tipping him with half-a-crown,
Now, said I, we are alone,
Name your heroes one by one. 
  Who is that hell-featured brawler? 
Is it Satan?  No; ’tis Waller.[13]
In what figure can a bard dress
Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? 
Honest keeper, drive him further,
In his looks are Hell and murther;
See the scowling visage drop,
Just as when he murder’d Throp.[14]
  Keeper, show me where to fix