He went to bed;--and, there, began to burn; Nine times he turn'd, in wondrous perturbation;-- He woke her Ladyship, at every turn, And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation. To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose, And prowl'd with him, lamenting Fortune's stripes; Now in the rookery among the crows, Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes: Wishing strange wishes;--among many, He wish'd--ere he had clapp'd his eyes on any. All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;-- Or, seeing Providence ordain'd it so, That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow, He wish'd stout Crabstick couldn't kill fat Friar. Men's wishes will be partial, now and then;-- As, in this case, 'tis plainly seen; Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen, Wish'd to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen. Think ye that _he_,--at wishing tho' a dab,-- To wish such harm to any _Knight_ would urge ye? Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab, And thump'd to death, with it, one of the Clergy. As he went wishing on, With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,-- Horror on horror!--he saw John Where least of all he ever thought to find him: Stuck up, on end, in placid grace, Like a stuff'd Kangaroo,--tho' vastly fatter,-- With the full moon upon his chubby face, Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter. "'Sdeath!" quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft, "Didst thou not tell me _where_ this Friar was left? Men rise again, _to push us from our stools_!"[14] To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,-- "Them as took pains to push that Friar from _his_, At such a time o'night, was cursed fools." [14] Shakspeare certainly borrow'd this expression from Sir Thomas.--See _Macbeth_. "Ah!" sigh'd Sir Thomas, "while I wander here, By fortune stamp'd a Homicide, alas!" (And, as he spoke, a penitential tear Mingled with Heaven's dew-drops, on the grass;)-- "Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?" "Sir Thomas," said the Duke of Limbs, "I wool." He would have thrown the garbage in the moat, But the Knight told him fat was prone to float. The Lout, at length, having bethought him, Heave'd up the Friar on his back once more; And (Castles having armories of yore) Into the Knight's old Armory he brought him. Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail, That grace'd the walls, on high, in gallant shew,-- As pewter pots, in houses fame'd for ale, Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,-- A curious, antique suit was hoarded, Cover'd with dust; Which had, for many years, afforded An iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust. Though this was all too little,--in a minute, The Duke of Limbs ramm'd the fat Friar in it; So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin, To make black puddings, and stuffs hog's meat in.