At clubs and taverns sweetly sings

Of self—while yawning Whigs attend—

Self first, last, midst, and without end;[[154]]

How Bedford piped, ill-fated Bard;[[155]]

Half-drown’d, in empty Palace-yard;

How Lansdowne, nature’s simple child,

At Bowood trills his wood-notes wild—[[156]]

How these and more (a phrenzied choir)

Sweep with bold hand Confusion’s lyre,

Till madding crowds around them storm