Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore
Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl
With such stentorian lungs,
That we opine the walls of old Guildhall
Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues—
“Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout
Is to obey.
The hand that’s in the act of pouring out
Is forced to stay—
“Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer