"From thee the roaring Bacchanalian crew,
In many a tavern round the Garden known,
Learn richer blackguard than they ever knew:
They catch thy look,—they copy every tone;
They ape the brazen honours of thy face,
And push the jorum with a double grace.
"Thee from his box the macaroni eyes;
With levell'd tube he takes his distant stand,
Trembling beholds the horrid storm arise,
And feels for reinhold when you raise your hand;