Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what...
'Tis not that I design to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir, and single,
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit
My thread-bare sentiments together,
To show my genius...
'TIS strange, while all to greatness homage pay,
So few should know the goddess they obey.
That men should think a thousand things the same,
And give contending images one name.
Not Greece, in all her temples' wide abodes,
Held a more wild democracy of Gods
Than various deities we serve,...