He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy way.
In a room where Cambridge town
Frowns o’er the kennels’ stinking flood,
Robed in a flannel powdering gown,
With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood!
(Long his beard, and blowzy hair,
Stream’d like an old wig to the troubled air);
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner.
Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell,