70
So many dying, that I see no more.
Lo! now my records, where I grieve to trace,
How Death has triumph'd in so short a space;
Who are the dead, how died they, I relate,
And snatch some portion of their acts from fate.
With Andrew Collett we the year begin,
The blind, fat landlord of the Old Crown Inn—
Big as his butt, and, for the self-same use,
To take in stores of strong fermenting juice.