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]]