Utrum Horum Dirius Borun? Incerti Auctoris. What! Still Those Two Infernal Questions, That With Our Meals Our Slumbers Mix-- That Spoil Our Tempers And Digestions-- Eternal Corn And Catholics! Gods! Were There Ever Two Such Bores? Nothing Else Talkt Of Night Or Morn-- Nothing In Doors Or Out Of Doors, But Endless Catholics And Corn! Never Was Such A Brace Of Pests-- While Ministers, Still Worse Than Either, Skilled But In Feathering Their Nests, Plague Us With Both And Settle Neither. So Addled In My Cranium Meet Popery And Corn That Oft I Doubt, Whether, This Year, 'Twas Bonded Wheat, Or Bonded Papists, They Let Out. Here, Landlords, Here Polemics Nail You, Armed With All Rubbish They Can Rake Up; Prices And Texts At Once Assail You-- From Daniel These, And Those From Jacob, And When You Sleep, With Head Still Torn Between The Two, Their Shapes You Mix, Till Sometimes Catholics Seem Corn-- Then Corn Again Seems Catholics. Now Dantsic Wheat Before You Floats-- Now Jesuits From California-- Now Ceres Linkt With Titus Oats, Comes Dancing Thro' The "Porta Cornea."[1] Oft Too The Corn Grows Animate, And A Whole Crop Of Heads Appears, Like Papists, Bearding Church And State-- Themselves, Together By The Ears! In Short These Torments Never Cease, And Oft I Wish Myself Transferred Off To Some Far, Lonely Land Of Peace Where Corn Or Papists Ne'er Were Heard Of. Yes, Waft Me, Parry, To The Pole; For--If My Fate Is To Be Chosen 'Twixt Bores And Icebergs--On My Soul, I'd Rather, Of The Two, Be Frozen!