XXVIII
“By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien,
An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge:
Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign,
Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge,
School’d in a beckon, learned in a nudge,
A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare;
Quiet and plodding thou dost bear no grudge
To whisking tilburies, or phaetons rare,
Curricles, or mail-coaches, swift beyond compare.”