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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entre nous, And Lordly Elliott holds his nose so high, You’d think his function was ol-factory But that nice snuggery is obsolete, and Stubbs’ Rules, sole incumbent of nocturnal tubs.——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,