On some vile joke, I blow it to the skies,
And hold my sides for laughter.—Then to supper,
With others of our brotherhood to mess
In some night-cellar on our barley-cakes,
And club invention for the next day's shift.—Cumberland.
The same.
Of how we live, a sketch I'll give,
If you'll attentive be;
Of parasites, (we're thieves by rights,)
The flower and chief are we.