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That stills struts on, with head left on the block
Which rare conceit’s from Sterne’s not Sale’s Koran
I cannot find it, but perhaps you can.——
See this dull lout, that lengthy gawky boy,
Just cast their quills, and bought a sharper toy,—
Not long endured this idle bullying clique
Who grind the digger, for the fee, they keep,
Who, while he toils in sun (oft vain his task),
Loll in their tents or pierce the forfeit cask——
Much could I tell to prove the tribe’s disgrace
But spare my strictures for another place———
The City Coms. have barely yet had time
To flush the sewers or calculate the fine
So versatile in talent are the three
The hydraheads of this directory——
Generous to wink at City rates unpaid
Or smirk approval of a fire brigade
See universal genius of a Ray,
Isaiah, can paraphrase, or pave the way
While steady Darewell holds the proper cue
So miss the stroke or make it, entre nous,
And Lordly Elliott holds his nose so high,
You’d think his function was ol-factory
But that nice snuggery is obsolete, and Stubbs’
Rules, sole incumbent of nocturnal tubs.——
Quibbler’s, impostors, pedlars are the rest
Of history doubtful, arrant knaves at best,
At least the most of them, as from the Hell
Emerge you see them, flushed with wine, pellmell—
All Bent-street savours of stale ale, cigars,
Those laugh who win, the losers curse their stars
And that star chamber that thus took them in
Where policy excluded gentlemen——
Gaunt glutton, Dobby’s nod o’er acrid wine
By chance ne’er absent were a chance to dine.
Nod, did I say, you’ll ne’er catch Dobby napping
At any table but at table rapping,
