To idle no longer in Chancery Lane!
Shall the Baker out-write thee, who never could beat thee!
Come, up with thy beaver, my jewel, again!
The green turf of Crawley is soft to receive thee—
The voice of thy Patlanders never will leave thee,
And Martin, the divil, can’t ‘fib’ thee or ‘weave’ thee
So answer the troublesome cretur, and train!
“Oh! answer the letter, Jack, (Goneril nor Regan
Could ne’er use more hard-hearted words to ould Lear);
And I wonder, I must say I do, that Pierce Egan