No soft flowing numbers must ravish the senses,
Whose soothing meanders a ditty would stain
A muse with such drowsy materials dispenses,
Whilst Grub-street’s quintessence will squeese from the brain:
How sweetly the strains
Must thrill thro’ the veins,
When Sandgate and Bedlam together combine;
Or “Oxygen Gas,”
From the pipe of an ass,
Rarifies the dence brains of our Bards of the Tyne.