Then, as the watchman bawl’d eleven,
He had one foot in bed,
More certainly than cuckolds go to Heaven.
Alas! what pity ’tis that regularity,
Like Isaac Shove’s, is such a rarity!
But there are swilling Wights, in London town,
Term’d—Jolly dogs,—Choice Spirits,—alias, Swine,
Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down,
Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.