1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum