On the decease of Horne Tooke

Horne Tooke is gone—rejoice and sing,
Ye Placemen, and ye Tools of a King!
He is gone!—then be his faults forgiven,
And let us hope he’s gone to Heaven.
That is a prayer you ought to make
If not for love, for interest’ sake;
For should he go to t’other place,
Think how he’ll plague your hireling race.