Viii

Gin! What is become of thy heart-chearing fire, And where is the beauty of Calvert's Intire? Does aught of its taste Double Gloucester beguile, That ham, those potatoes, why do they not smile, Ah! rot ye, I see what it was you were at, Why you knocked up your froth, why you flash'd off your fat: To roll in her ivory, to pleasure her eye, To be tipt by her tongue, on her stomach to lie.