The gouty old blades who have drank the clear liquid,
Have snapp’d the fir crutches at seventy-seven;
And into the skulls, long incurably stupid,
A portion of good common-sense has been driv’n.
E’en the nose of the sot,
As a heater red hot,
Or a flaming balloon which philosophy rears,
When dipt in the water,
The luminous matter
Goes out with a hiss, and the blaze disappears.