Pandora’s incense on his head did pour.
Drench’d, buffeted, he had no time to think,
Saluted by a compound of such Stink;
Smother’d all over by the filthy souse,
He reach’d his heart up, ere he reach’d his House.
Teague, by his Master’s nasty figure struck,
Dryly, ‘He wished him joy of his good luck’;
Then seiz’d a Tub, and with assiduous care,
With water wash’d the ordure from his hair.
‘Here, prythee, ease me of my Hat and Coat;