The Bard.
A Covent Garden Ode.
“Ruin seize thee, ruthless John,[51]
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Though bless’d with all the smiles of ton,
They mock the air with idle state:
Helm nor hauberks twisted mail,
Nor e’en thy sister’s[52] acting, shall prevail,
To save thy soul from nightly fears,
From O.P.’s curse, from O.P.’s cheers.”