In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.
Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” cries Will, in a taking,
“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”
Will paid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,
“Well, I see you’ve been going away half a year:”
“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Will said;—
“But I’d rather not perish, while you make your bread.”[2]
