Tables are turn’d, and hazard is no more.
Beneath this dome, where dwells St. Stephen’s shade,
And benches rife in many a verdant bed,
No seats are occupied, no motions made,
The quondam Treas’ry Members all are fled.
The early call of incense-breathing tools,
The Council’s summons thund’ring at their door;
The Levee’s courtly pomp (the pride of fools)
Shall rouze them from their privacy no more.
For them no more shall Council dinners smoke,