d cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to--die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.
M. B.

[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature
M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the
Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's
Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the
author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments,
while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth
letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature
of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to
encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly
their own.--_Scott._]

PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES

----Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
Auri sacra fames!----VIRG., _Aen._, iii.

This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of
Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems
to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton,
when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.--_Scott._ See
vol. i, p. 169.--_W. E. B._

Fair ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite--Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you'll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh'invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land--and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call'd our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E'en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squ