That must or starve, or beg at door,
They’d not at all regard your story,
But in their painted garments glory;
And such as were not Indian proof
They scorn’d, despised, as paltry stuff;
And like gay peacocks proudly strut it,
When in our streets along they foot it.
* * * * *
And happy thrice would England be,
If, while they’re living, we could see