Over the way,
Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops,
Was one great head of Kemble—that is, John—
Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on,
And twenty little Bantam fowls, with crops.
Little Dame W. thought, when through the sash
She gave the physic wings,
To find the very things
So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash,
For thoughtless cock and unreflecting pullet!