And forests yielded their cornuted pride.—
But all was vain, ’mid daintiest feasts they sighed;
Gout trod in anger on each hapless toe;
Stern apoplexy pummelled each fat side,
And dropsy seconded his deadly blow,
’Till floored by fate they sunk to endless sleep below.
* * * * *
15.
Something too much of this; but now ’tis past,
And Fleet Street spreads her busy vale below: