And d—— ye, 'tis all for your good.

David Hume ate a swinging great dinner,

And grew every day fatter and fatter;

And yet the huge hulk of a sinner

Said there was neither spirit nor matter.

Now there's no sober man in the nation,

Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think:

It follows, by fair demonstration,

That he philosophiz'd in his drink.

As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin;

Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening,

While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin,

Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning.[6]

In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf),

Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye,

That unable to manage himself,

He puts his whole trust in Necessity.

If the young in rash folly engage,

How closely continues the evil!

Old Franklin retains, as a sage,

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