More, more arrests! Changarnier brave
Is dragged to prison like a knave,
No time allowed the swell to shave,
Or use the least perfumery.
’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son,
(Perchance her spouse’s too) has won
The imperial crown. The French are done,
Chawed up most incontestably.
Few, few shall write, and none shall meet;
Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet!