Through the heavenly throng,
Hasting to those
Who will feast us at night with a pig’s pettytoes.
1st King.— And we’ll fall with our plate
In an olio of hate
2nd King.—But, now supper’s done, the servitors try,
Like soldiers, to storm a whole half-moon pie.
1st King.— They gather, they gather, hot custards in spoons:
But, alas! I must leave these half-moons,
And repair to my trusty dragoons.