For that we hocuss'd first his drink,
Then poison'd him with writing ink;
And having thrown him on the floor,
We basely burk'd the gracious Moore!
They vow we did this bloody deed
That we might to his fame succeed;
But good, they say, can't come of ill,
For let us do whate'er we will,
We never shall,—and that is plain,—
The fools or the old women gain.