'Twas then he press'd the frizzled hair
And sunk back senseless in his chair.
The good old Bookseller amaz'd
On the strange, motley picture gaz'd,
And Betty Broom began to vow
"'Twere pity he should die just now."
While the staid Cook, whose ev'ry feature
Scarce knew a change from sober nature,
Was to expression ne'er beguil'd,
Who never wept nor ever smil'd