When pert Defoe his saucy papers writ,
He from a cart was pillor'd for his wit:
By mob was pelted half a morning's space,
And rotten eggs besmear'd his yellow face;
The Censor then improv'd the list'ning isle,
And held both parties in an artful smile.
A scribbling crew now pinching winter brings,
That spare no earthly nor no heav'nly things,
Nor church, nor state, nor treasurers, nor kings.
But blasphemy displeases all the town;
And for defying scripture, law, and crown,
Woolston should pay his fine, and lose his gown.