And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.
The gay Parade grew thin—all the fair crowd
Vanish’d—as if they knew their own attractions,—
For now the lightning through a near hand cloud
Began to make some very crooked fractions—
Only some few remain’d that were not cow’d,
A few rough sailors, who had been in actions,
And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo’s,
Lest it should blow,—were pulling up the Rose: