But to ſome people if you give
An inch—they’ll take an ell.
The youth then drew his martial knife,
And ſeiz’d the Baron’s collar,
He ſwore he’d have the Baron’s life,
Or elſe another dollar.
Then did the Baron in a fume,
Soon raiſe a mighty din,
Whereon came butler, huntſman, groom,
And eke the whipper-in.
Maugre this young man’s warlike coat,
They bore him off to priſon;
And held ſo ſtrongly by his throat,
They almoft ſtopt his whizzen.
Soon may a neckcloth, call’d a rope,
Of robbing cure this elf;
If ſo I’ll write, without a trope,
His dying ſpeech myſelf.
And had the Baron chanc’d to die,
Oh! grief to all the nation,
I muſt have made an elegy,
And not this fine narration.
Moral.
Henceforth let thoſe who all have ſpent,
And would by begging live,
Take warning here, and be content,
Amelia.
Your muſe, Mr. Butler, is in a very inventive humour this morning.
