That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The Royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face:
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d,