Inspector. How's this, my lads! What cools your usual zeal,
And makes your helméd valour down i' the mouth?
Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame
Whose reddening blaze, by civic spirit fed,
Should be the beacon of a happy Town?
Can the smart patter of a Bobby's tongue
Thus stagnate in a cold and prosy converse,
Or freeze in oathless inarticulateness?
No! Let not the full fountain of your valour
Be choked by mere official wiggings, or