All melted, like butter or bacon!
Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might,
For Vinegar Yard was before her,
But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight,
Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas-light,
To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.
Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch,
Whose votaries scorn to be sober;
He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch:
Brown stout is his doublet, he hops in his march,