WHAT is't to us, if taxes rise or fall,
Thanks to our fortune  pay none at all.
Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal,
Lament those hardships which  cannot feel.
His GRACE, who smarts, may bellow if he please,
But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?
By custom safe the poet's numbers flow,
Free as the light and air some years ago.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours, and excise our brains.
Burthens like these vile earthly buildings bear,
No tribute's laid on  in the