Oh, sad reverse! how would he foam and fret,
And sigh for Paris and his sweet Soubrette!
Where twice ten thousand tongues are proud to greet him,
And wing’d Applause, on tip-toe, stands to meet him;
Where the grim Guard, in nightly rapture, stands,
And grounds his musquet to get at his hands;
Where the retentive Pitt, all prone t’adore him,
Repeat his Bon mots half a bar before him;
While every Bel-Esprit, at every hit,
Grows fifty-fold more conscious of his Wit.