"The Worshipful Court—so fate ordains—
Shall look like skeletons hanging _in chains_;
They'll need no gowns, for they'll get so thin,
They may wrap themselves round in their own loose skin;
And then in vain
Shall they complain,
Who cannot bear the shock;
_Champagne_ shall turn to _real pain_,
And _Turtle_ change to _mock_.
No calipash or calipee
Their longing eyes again shall see;
No more green fat!
To them shall _ven'son_ still be _deer_;
Their stout shall turn to thin small beer,
Sour and flat.