XXVIII

4 0 00

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.”