May they—I’ll curse them further at my leisure.
But for our club,
“Ay, there’s the rub.”
“We mourn it dead in its father’s halls:”55. “They mourn it dead,” &c.—A pretty, but perhaps too literal allusion to a popular song—J. RODWELL.—
The sporting prints are cut down from the walls;
No stuffing there,
Not even in a chair;
The spirits are all ex(or)cised,
The coffee-cups capsized,
The coffee fine-d, the snuff all taken,