As you chance to be fee’d:—
Leave musty reports
And forsake the king’s courts,
Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones;
Burn Salkeld and Ventris,[4]
And all your damned entries,
And away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones!
Ye physical tribe
Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,
Whene’er you prescribe,