"Attend, my Sons, and you, my friends, draw near,
And on my last remain bestow a tear;
Your dear, dear Punch, must yield his nect'rous breath,
And ere to-morrow noon submit to death.
No hopes of pardon, no reprieve is nigh,
My death is sign'd: and must I, must I die?
It is resolv'd.—Then rouse your noble souls,
And crown this night with cheerful flowing bowls;
Let none but you, my friends, support my pall,
And bilk those fops who triumph in my fall[51:A]."