To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,—
“Them as took pains to push that Friar from his,
At such a time o’night, was cursed fools.”
“Ah!” sigh’d Sir Thomas, “while I wander here,
By fortune stamp’d a Homicide, alas!”
(And, as he spoke, a penitential tear
Mingled with Heaven’s dew-drops, on the grass;)—
“Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?”
“Sir Thomas,” said the Duke of Limbs, “I wool.”
He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,