or put Caesar in as Secretary of State, instead of having him
roasted three times a month for seventy or eighty centuries, he
would have strengthened his hold. As it is, he has ignored all
these people officially, treats them like criminals personally;
makes friends with Mazarin and Powhatan, awards the office of
Tax Assessor to Dick Turpin, and makes old Falstaff commander of
his Imperial Guard. And just because poor Ben Jonson scribbled
off a rhyme for my paper, The Gazette--a rhyme running:

Mazarin And Powhatan,
Turpin and Falstaff,
Form, you bet, A cabinet
To make a donkey laugh.

Mazarin And Powhatan
Run Apollyon's state.
The Dick and Jacks Collect the tax--
The people pay the freight.

--just because Jonson wrote that and I published it, my paper
was confiscated, Jonson was boiled in oil for ten weeks, and I
was seized and thrown into a dungeon where a lot of savages from
the South Sea Islands tattooed the darned old jingle between
my shoulder blades in green letters, and not satisfied with
this barbaric act, right under the jingle they added the line,
in red letters, 'This edition strictly limited to one copy, for
private circulation only,' and they every one of 'em, Apollyon,
Mazarin, and the rest, signed the guarantee personally with
red-hot pens dipped in sulphuric acid. It makes a valuable
collection of autographs, no doubt, but I prefer my back as