It was I who was shudd'ring to witness their brawls.
There's no office so dirty but they would fulfil;
There's no sense of debasement could alter their will:
When the munching of immature codlings might gripe him,
They would tear out the leaves of the Psalter to wipe him.
Yet these summer fed vermin will fly him, if e'er
His wintery fortunes should leave his trunk bare;
Then he'll know that but virtue can keep the soul great,
As they'd make their past meanness the cause of their hate!
I have dropp'd lumps of lime in their glasses while drinking;