I like those crimes best that are done in quiet.

Though I need not take it unless I choose it.

By the deeds you do and the deeds you've done;
I know that no causes corrupt the mind
Like the chains by which tyrants have crushed mankind;
That the blighting touch of a despot's rod
Kills in man's spirit the breath of God;
That the cherishing light of the holy skies,
Falls barren and vain upon servile eyes;
That the weeds of evil will thrive there best
Where the fair shoots of nature are clipped and dressed:
And under those climes where the poisonous brood
Of error is nursed by servitude.
When most I am bent on man's undoing,
The tyrant assists my work of ruin:
In New South Wales, as I plainly see,
You're carving out plentiful jobs for me.
But—forgive me for hinting—your zeal is such,
That I'm only afraid you'll do too much.
I know this well:—to subject mankind
You must tickle before you attempt to bind;
Nor lay on his shoulders the yoke, until
Through his passions you've first enslaved his will.
You're too violent far—you rush too madly
At your favourite ends, and spoil them sadly.
Already I warn you, the system totters—
They're a set of hornets—these unruly squatters;
Especially when you would grasp their cash.
Excuse me, George, but I think you're rash.

In the higher circles 'tis not the fashion.

To be laughed at all over the factious town?
I'll teach these squatters to pay their rent;
I don't care a rush for their discontent!
They've abused me in print, they've made orations,
They've their papers and Pastoral Associations;
They've gone to the length of caricaturing,
But I'll show them the evil is past their curing.

Your temper's too hot for work like this.
'Twere a pity to peril this rich possession