Whom not a Whig will now acknowledge,
Return his bow, or shake his hand.
Is the sable Jackson fled?
Thy friend is gone he hides his powder’d head.
The Bedells, too, by whom the mace is borne,
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows,
While gently sidling through the crowded street
In scarlet robe, Clare’s[60] tiny master goes.