The chearful call of “Chair! your honour—chair!”
Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford-head,
The oaths of coachmen squabbling for a fare,
No more can rouse them from their filthy bed.
For them the blazing links no longer burn,
Or busy bunters ply their evening care;
No Setters watch the muddled Cit’s return,
In hopes some pittance of the prey to share.
Oft to their subtlety the fob did yield,
Their cunning oft the pocket-string hath broke: