[69]
ever were laid, that I will this moment stop three hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without punishing one single nerve that belongs to him.—Twaddle diddle, tweddle diddle,—twiddle diddle,—twoddle diddle, twuddle diddle,—prut-trut—krish—krash—krush.—I've undone you, Sir,—but you see he is no worse,—and was Apollo to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no better.
Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle—hum—dum—drum.
—Your worships and your reverences love musick—and God has made you all with good ears—and some of you play delightfully yourselves—trut-prut,—prut-trut.
O! there is—whom I could sit and hear whole days,—whose talents lie in making what he fiddles to be felt,—who inspiresme
