I.

’Twas at the solemn feast, for laurels won By William, old John Shakespeare’s son, Aloft in awful state The Mayor of Stratford sate, Rais’d on a wool-pack throne: His aldermen were plac’d around, Their brows with spreading antlers crown’d, (So city spouses should be found) The lovely May’ress by his side Sat like a plump High-German bride, Not less for fat renown’d, than pride.

Happy, happy, happy May’r! None but the fat, None but the fat, None but the fat deserve the bouncing fair.