But now, alas! a wicked wag
Has pull’d away the gaseous bag:
From heaven, where thron’d, like Jove I sat,
I’m fall’n! fall’n! fall’n! down, flat! flat! flat![8]
Thus, as the ancient story goes,
When o’er Avernus flew the crows,
They were so stench’d in half a minute,
They giddy grew and tumbled in it:
And thus a blade, who is too handy
To help himself to wine or brandy,