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