One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,
To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:
"Alas!" cried one as round in air he spun,
"That miserable wretch's _race is run_."
"True," said the other drily, "to his cost,
The race is run--but, by a _neck_ 'tis lost."
* * * * *