Oh, stand a trifle (just one’s throat to wet)—
See how my eye with tears of anguish swims;
But make it something decent, or you’ll get,
Ahem!—not blessings on your eyes and limbs.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose bandaged limbs have borne him to your door!
Who in these dreadful times—try all he can,
Can only make two pounds a day—no more!
The Man in the Moon, Vol. V. 1849.