In Reynolds’ finds congenial stuff,
And sends it jokes and rhymes;
For he’s a writer for the press,
When liquor duly primes.
Loafing—and loitering—liquoring—
Down to his grave he goes;
Each morning finds him “coppery,”
He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close;
Something attempted—some one “done,”
Whilst liquor always flows.