No signs of sorrow, fear or grief,
And round it walk’d a turn or two,
Where he saw acquaintance, gave a bow:
The inscription on his coffin read,
Said, That is right, and shook his head.
The block he call’d, His pillow of rest,
And said, That ax has been well drest,
The executioner’s shoulder did clap,
And said, My friend, give a free chap,
You ask my pardon, but that’s a fable,