Was in itself a capital offence?
Whatever be the cause, the effect is sad;
Since thou must close his well-known lucky wicket,
Bish, our Leviathan, is gone half mad,
And looks as dismal as a blank-drawn ticket.
Carrol—alas! his carols, turned to sighs,
Seem to his cheerful name to give the lie;
Hazard, with fear of death before his eyes
Declares he’ll stand the “hazard of the die.”
Swift, of the Poultry, too, is ill at ease,