III
The Kennel, that's wont to run swiftly along,
And dance to soft murmurs dead kittens among,
Thou know'st, little buckhorse, if Nancy was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear:
But now that she's off, I can see it run past,
And still as it murmurs do nothing but blast.
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Stop your clack, and be damn'd t'ye, and hear me complain.