A street fight. (To MR F——.)

Sir, we approve your curling lip and nose
At this vile sight.
These men, these women are brute beasts?—Who knows,
Sir, but that you are right?

Panders and harlots, rogues and thieves and worse,
We are a crew
Whose pitiful plunder's honoured in the purse
Of gentlemen like you.

Whom holy Competition's taught (like us)
"What's thine is mine!"—
How we must love you who have made us thus,
You may perhaps divine!