And haven't you, all christian patience gone, At last, put down the puppy with your wit;-- On whom it seem'd, tho' you had Mines of it, Extravagance to spend a jest upon?-- And haven't you, (I'm sure you have, my friend!) When you have laid the puppy low,-- All little pique, and malice, at an end,-- Been sorry for the blow? And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,) "Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?" Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;-- Whose Genius didn't much disturb his pate: It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,-- Like many other men's of good estate: Thus did Sir Thomas say;--and well he might, When pity to resentment did succeed; For, certainly, (tho' not with _wit_) the Knight Had hit the Friar very hard, indeed! And heads, nineteen in twenty, 'tis confest, Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest. There was, in the Knight's family, a man Cast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts; With shoulders wider than a dripping pan, And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts. All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk, So large a specimen of Nature's whims, With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk, Had christen'd him the Duke of Limbs. Thro'out the Castle, every whipper-snapper Was canvassing the merits of this strapper: Most of the Men voted his size alarming; But all the Maids, _nem. con._ declare'd it charming! This wight possess'd a quality most rare;-- I tremble when I mention it, I swear! Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity: 'Twas--when he had a secret in his care, To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity. Pour but a secret in him, and 'twould glue him Like rosin, on a well-cork'd bottle's snout; Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him, They never could have screw'd the secret out. Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone, Had kill'd a Friar, weighing twenty stone, Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn, Judging he might as hopelessly desire To move a Convent as the Friar, He thought on this man's secresy, and brawn;-- And, like a swallow, o'er the lawn he skims, Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs: Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copy Of his own daughter Mors,[8] had made assault On the Duke's eye-lids,--not with juice of poppy, But potent draughts, distill'd from hops and malt. Certainly, nothing operates much quicker Against two persons' secret dialogues, Than one of them being asleep, in liquor, Snoring like twenty thousand hogs. Yet circumstance did, presently, require The Knight to tell his tale; And to instruct his Man, knock'd down with ale, That he (Sir Thomas) had knock'd down a Friar. How wake a man, in such a case? Sir, the best method--I have tried a score-- Is, when his nose is playing thoro' bass, To pull it, till you make him roar.