Pliant and prompt in crane-neck curves to wheel,
Achilles rose, and turn’d upon his heel.
Another by Mr. Wilbraham Beetle.
In oily terms he urg’d the chiefs to peace,
For none was more a friend than he to Grease.
Another by Lord Bayham.
His conscious hat well lin’d with borrow’d prose,
The lubber chief in sulky mien arose;
Elate with pride his long pent silence broke,
And could he but have read, he might have spoke.
Another by Mr. Dundas.
Up the bra’ chield arose, and weel I wis }
To beath sides booing, begg’d ’em to dismiss }
Their wordy warfare in “a general peece.”[1] }
Another by Mr. York.
This windy war, he swore, he could not hear;
So eas’d his troubles by “a stream of air![2]”
Another by Lord Fawconberg.