At length, the Count and Baron bold Their footsteps homeward bended; For why, because, as you were told, The hunting it was ended. Before them strait a youth appears, Who made a piteous pother, And told a tale with many tears, About his dying mother. The youth was in severe distress, And seem’d as he had spent all, He look’d a soldier by his dress; For that was regimental. The Baron’s heart was full of ruth, While from his eye fell brine o! And soon he gave the mournful youth A little ready rino. He gave a shilling as I live, Which, sure, was mighty well; 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 almost 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, With what folks chuse to give. AMELIA. Your muse, Mr. Butler, is in a very inventive humour this morning. MR. ANHALT. And your tale too improbable, even for fiction. BUTLER. Improbable! It’s a real fact. AMELIA. What, a robber in our grounds, at noon-day? Very likely indeed! BUTLER. I don’t say it was likely—I only say it is true. MR. ANHALT. No, no, Mr. Verdun, we find no fault with your poetry; but don’t attempt to impose it upon us for truth. AMELIA. Poets are allowed to speak falsehood, and we forgive yours. BUTLER. I won’t be forgiven, for I speak truth—And here the robber comes, in custody, to prove my words. [_Goes off, repeating_] “I’ll write his dying speech myself.” AMELIA. Look! as I live, so he does—They come nearer; he’s a young man, and has something interesting in his figure. An honest countenance, with grief and sorrow in his face. No, he is no robber—I pity him! Oh! look how the keepers drag him unmercifully into the tower—Now they lock it—Oh! how that poor, unfortunate man must feel! MR. ANHALT. [_aside_]. Hardly worse than I do. _Enter the_ BARON. AMELIA. [_runs up to him_]. A thousand congratulations, my dear papa. BARON. For Heaven’s sake spare me your congratulations. The old Butler, in coming up stairs, has already overwhelmed me with them. MR. ANHALT. Then, it is true, my Lord? I could hardly believe the old man. AMELIA. And the young prisoner, with all his honest looks, is a robber?