And, ’midst its shrubs and vacant stalls,

And proud Piazza’s crumbling walls,

Hear trulls and watchmen snoring!

Parent of wine, and gin, and beer,[[169]]

The nymphs of Billingsgate you cheer;

Naiads robust and hearty;

As Brookes’s chairmen fit to wield

Their stout oak bludgeons in the field,

To aid our virtuous party.

Mortals! no common voice you hear;[[170]]