For tho’ worsted in fight, yet, by order of fate,
The vanquished must temper the pulse of his hate,
And yield to the victor (his will’s despite)
Unbridled sway o’er the fiends of night.
’Tis done, and sore with his recent thwacking,
Abaddon hath purchased O’Warren’s Blacking;
Fate stood by while the bargain was made,
Signed a receipt when the money was paid,
Then summoned her sprites, an exemplary band,
To kneel in respect to the Lord of the Strand.