Then this festive creature winning all my sad soul into grinning, Such a visage idiotic I had never seen of yore; “Well, you have been drinking brandy,” said I, “and your legs are bandy, And you hardly look a dandy, though you come from Baize and Blore; Tell me what on earth your name is in the firm of Baize and Blore?” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” IX. Scarce I wondered this unsightly dun had answered unpolitely, And his answer little comfort, little consolation bore; For you cannot help confessing that it’s surely not a blessing When you find yourself addressing dun within your chamber door; Man or dun upon the oilcloth just within your chamber-door, With a name like Tick-no-more! X. But the tailor standing solus gave me like a bitter bolus That one word, as if his vacant soul in that he did outpour; Me with no fine words he buttered, this from time to time he stuttered, Till I very softly muttered, “other duns have been before; They will give me further credit as my tradesmen have before;” Then the dun said, “Tick-no-more!” XI. Startled that he spoke so flatly and replied so very patly, “Limited,” I said, “it seems is his linguistic stock and store; If of no more words he’s master, if he duns not harder, faster, Verily he’ll bring disaster on the house of Baize and Blore, And I shall remain indebted to the firm of Baize and Blore For ever, evermore.” XII. Still his strange demeanour winning all my sad soul into grinning, Straight I wheeled a cushioned couch in front of oilcloth, dun, and door; Then upon the cushions sinking I betook myself to drinking Little sips of sherry, thinking what this plague from Baize and Blore, What this gloomy, greasy, groggy messenger from Baize and Blore Meant by stuttering “Tick-no-more.” XIII. But my cat I soothed by stroking, and small bits of bread kept soaking In the milk, and gave them to her, dropped them for her on the floor: Long I sat, strange things divining, with my head at ease reclining Near the sherry I was wining that the dun’s eye gloated o’er; But the liquor I was wining with his green eyes gloating o’er He shall taste, oh! nevermore. XIV. Cloud by cloud the air grew denser, perfumed from my meerschaum censer, I should think I must have smoked of pipes that morning half a score; “Man,” I said, “I have no treasure, or I’d pay the bill with pleasure, Only once more take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore, Take your tape and take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore.” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” XV.