EPIGRAM ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.
One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,
To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:
“Alas!” cried one as round in air he spun,
“That miserable wretch’s race is run.”
“True,” said the other drily, “to his cost,
The race is run—but, by a neck ‘tis lost.”