O _man_ of _mineral putrefaction_,[73] In spite of imps of fell detraction, We greet thee on our bended knees Great Britain’s great Hippocrates.
But if Haygarthian rites infernal Should fail our foes to overturn all, Seek ways and means to lay them level, Without one conjurer, witch, or devil.
If you can find some one among You, who don’t value being hung, Perhaps the readiest mode would be To kill the conjuring patentee.
But still I have some hesitation To recommend assassination; Although I’m sure ’twould not be cruel, To pop off Perkins in a DUEL.
For this you’ve precedents quite ample, Full many a glorious example, From Goths and Vandals, out of temper, or A certain crazy Russian emperor.[74]
For if the conjurer were shot dead, By some rude harum-scarum hot-head; Then might we quickly crush the flummery Of tract’ring mischief-making mummery.
Perkins destroy’d, the INSTITUTION Will be o’erwhelm’d in dire confusion; And we shall easily be able To overturn this modern Babel.
So, if a wolf should silent creep T’ attack by night a flock of sheep, He’d not attempt the whole together, But first invade the old bell-wether.[75]
Let not the thought of Jack Ketch scare ye, But at him like brave Mac Namara, Avenge our wrongs in mode as summary As he adopted with Montgomery.
For if said Mac be crown’d with laurel, Who kill’d a colonel in a quarrel About two dogs, between two puppies, Most mighty sirs, my trust and hope is,
That nobody will think it is hard For us to shoot a conjuring wizard, Since all allow, sans hesitation, That we’ve received vast provocation.
And if our champion’s full of fury, When he kills Perkins, then the jury (Provided they are made to fit him) Will most assuredly acquit him.[76]
And when the foe is sent to Hades, Our champion will please the ladies, Because the pretty things delight in The man who kills his man in fighting.
The poet now, with Discord’s clarion Preludes the war we mean to carry on; And sends abroad a PROCLAMATION Against Perkinean conjuration; Proves that we ought to hang the tractors, On gibbet high, like malefactors, And with them that pestiferous corps, Who keep alive the paltry poor; By reasons sound, as e’er were taken, From Aristotle, Locke, or Bacon.