Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;
His cheeks turn’d purple, and his nose turn’d blue;
He swore with this mock Saint he’d soon be even;—
He’d have him flay’d, like Saint Bartholomew;—
And, now again, he’d have him stone’d, like Stephen.
But, “Ira furor brevis est,”
As Horace, quaintly, has express’d;—
Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth
Work thro’ the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,
Pull’d out the vent-peg of his wrath,