The flood of morbid sentiment rolls on.
Lion-kings die, and the Sword-swallower's gone
The way of all such horrors, slowly slain
By efforts to please curious brutes, for gain.
What next, and next? Stretch some one on the rack
And let him suffer publicly. 'Twill pack
The show with prurient pryers, and draw out
The ready shillings from the rabble rout
Of well-dressed quidnuncs, frivolous and fickle
Who'll pay for aught that their dull sense will tickle.