Than e'en a poet's whimsies, any day,
Her rivals say.
She must, they swear, have "raked in golden barley,"
Like the great Fleet Street "Cock."
Their jealous jeremiads, sour and snarly,
Partlet's prim feelings shock.
'Luck! Not at all: but the reward emphatic
Of skill villatic."
"Of course 'tis obvious that the Tory rooster
Has 'crammed a plumper crop'