Save where the Seaman from the Gallery’s height,
For roast beef bawling, the cu’d Fiddler scolds;
Save that in yonder velvet-mantled box
A moping Countess to her Grace complains
Of macaws, monkeys, perroquets, and shocks,
And losses vaist and vaistly paltry gains.
Behind those rugged spikes that bag-wigs shade,
Where tuneful Folios lie in many a heap,
Each in his narrow line for ever laid
The embryo crotchets of the “Guardian” sleep.