A croaking voice exclaims, ‘Aqui Senhor?’
‘A key!’ says John, ‘why, D——n me, you’ve no Door.’
Teague, sober grown, now offer’d his advice,
‘A Soldier, plase your honour, mayn’t be nice.
‘Becase your honour must consider; as why,
‘There’s a good Roof between us and the Sky:
‘I’ll first go out, and steal the Beasts some Food,
‘And then I’ll cook your honour something good.’
Alas! poor John; he wanted consolation,
Wrapp’d in the misery of meditation;