When Good-luck is proscribed, and out of date?
The web of death encircles J. D. Webb,
The common ruin on him too hath landed;
Him, too, must reach this melancholy ebb,
And all the fortunes of the Strand be stranded.
Pidding, who did his corner much enjoy,
Says, while he contemplates the prospect dim,
“How oft I’ve hung out my gay blue-coat boy—
Now I must hang myself instead of him!”
Happily, next year, some friend shall say and weep,