Classic Poem

Oh, that the winds of March could wither up
The never-sleeping treachery of Kings!
What, though Commotion hath the whirlwind's wings,
If blind Misrule is still the Unwithstood?
What, though wrong'd men have startled Fraud and Force,
If the leagu'd dynasties of Foot and Horse
Brood o'er a new Niagara of blood.
And drunken Waste still hugs her empty cup?
Hark, how the World's benetted miscreancies
Chaunt their growl'd slang, for altar, jail, and throne,
While in the Bael of sworded villanies
Each paltry despotling protects his own!
Proving the soundness of the saw accurs'd,
That little tyrants always are the worst.