Cried, ‘_Viva, Senhor!_’ and pursu’d his stitches. ‘_Viver!_’ said John, ‘O G--d confound your “_viver_,” ‘This horrid place will put me in a Fever.’ Then with Grimaces, Sighs, and Groans, and Shrugs, Explor’d this den of Lice, and Fleas, and Bugs. It is a fact well known, the Portuguese Cherish voluptuously both Lice and Fleas; Some Bramin-like, are influenc’d by Piety, But mostly for Amusement, and Society; For Females oft in parties will carouse, Scratching each other’s Heads, t’ entrap a Louse, Whilst on their skins, the Fleas will Skip, & Scramble, And wanton Lice through all their ringlets ramble. Not that these Gamesome Merriments we find, As in some Countries, to the Poor confin’d; Here does their influence undisputed Reign, From Courtly Nobles, to the humble Swain. But to resume, poor John, as it was late, Sadly submitted to his wretched fate; Rejected Food, on Canteens stretch’d he lay, And sullen watch’d for the returning Day. Teague fed his Animals, then took his Dose, And soon resign’d himself to his repose. Restless poor John now pass’d the tedious Night, Each minute starting from a greedy Bite; With outstretch’d neck, his eyes he cast aloof, Reliev’d at length by Day-light through the Roof, Set Teague to work, and so without delay, Saddled his Dobbins, and went on his way. Now eagerly he sniffed the fragrant Gale, The Tagus crossed, and travell’d in the Dale. Govina, Niza, now left in their Rear, When Dobbin stopped, and bristled up with fear. ‘God rot the beast!’ says John in some amaze, Rose in his stirrups, and did round him gaze: A sight beheld, that gave his nerves a shock, A mangled human Body on the Rock.[18] Transfix’d, he stared with horror and affright, And roared to hasten Teague with all his might. Teague unconcerned, with shrug of nonchalance, Said, ‘O, by Ja--s! you’ll ne’er get to France! ‘He’s a Frenchman, Master, that lies sprawling, ‘The Wolves have given him a pretty mauling.’ ‘What, Teague,’ said John, who felt another dread, ‘Is’t Wolves that have upon this Carcase fed?’ Again with horror did around him peer; ‘Won’t they attack us, Teague?’ they must be near. ‘Attack,’ says Teague, ‘your honour need not fright; ‘If we were dead, and Travelling here, they might.’