Dire was the din, as when some storm confounds Earth, sea, and sky, with all terrific sounds.

Dire was the tossing, deep the Groans.

Thus, though the Mall, the Ring, the Pit is full, And every Coffee-House still swarms with Fool; Though still by Fools all other Callings live, Nay our own Women by fresh Cullies thrive, Though your Intrigues which no Lampoon can cure, Promise a long Succession to ensure; And all your Matches plenty do presage: Dire is the Dearth and Famine on the Stage.

Dire was the tossing, deep the Groans.

Dire was the battle between the pig and the Frenchman.

Dire was the pain which then he prov'd; But not for this his sleeve he mov'd, Or would the scorching ember shake Out from the folds, lest it should make Any confusion, or excite Disturbance at the sacred rite.