Nay, nay, I’m not so much;
You see that well. ’Tis true I had a notion,
A thought I’m not the weakest hand at weapons,
That I’d done thus and thus, and none could ever
Get nipping at my ears without his buffet;
And, if by just the twist of luck a better
Were absent, I’d be called in danger’s hour.
But those are boyish dreams—the lash to the booby
For tippling wine i’ the night!
Lesbia.