Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life,
And calls the town to swallow.
The cry once up, the dogs of news,
Who hunt for paragraphs the stews,
Yelp out "Johnsoniana!"
Their nauseous praise but moves my bile,
Like tartar, carduus, camomile,
Or ipecacuanha.
Next Boswell comes, for 'twas my lot
To find at last one honest Scot