Some heart, to make a splash once all on fire:
Skill, that might Hobhouse to the rout have put,
Or loyally play’d Doctor Southey’s lyre.
But prudence to their eyes her careful page,
Rich in pounds, shillings, pence, did ne’er unroll.
Stern creditors repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of their soul.
Full many a blood, in fashion an adept,
The dark, lone rooms of spunging-houses bear
Full many a fair is born to bloom unkept,