And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And Time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug,
Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale,
So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.
“Dear Bill, This Stone-Jug.”
(Being an Epistle from Toby Cracksman, in Newgate, to Bill Sykes.)