AT length, when Greg'ry twenty strokes had got, He piteously exclaimed:--if more's my lot I never shall survive! Oh! pray forgive, If you desire, my lord, that I should live. Then down with thirty pounds, replied the peer, Since you the blows so much pretend to fear; I'm sorry for you; but if all the gold Be not prepared, your godfather, I'm told, Can lend a part; yet, since so far you've been, To flinch the rest you surely won't be seen. THE wretched peasant to his lordship flew, And trembling cried--'tis up! the number view! A scrutiny was made, which nothing gained; No choice but pay the money now remained; This grieved him much, and o'er the fellow's face; The dewy drops were seen to flow apace. All useless proved:--the full demand he sent, With which the peer expressed himself content. Unlucky he whoe'er his lord offends! To golden ore, howe'er, the proud man bends: 'TWAS vain that Gregory a pardon prayed; For trivial faults the peasant dearly paid; His throat enflamed--his tender back well beat-- His money gone--and all to make complete, Without the least deduction for the pain, The blows and garlick gave the trembling swain. ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: Who, born for hanging, ever yet was drowned?