How many a young apprentice of no note;
How many a maiden fair and lover true—
Have passed down thy Charybdis of a throat,
And gone, Oh! dreadful Davy Jones, to you!
The coroner for Southwark, or the City,
Calling a jury with due form and fuss,
To find a verdict, amidst signs of pity,
In phrase poetic—thus:—
"Found
Drown'd!"