His tribute to the nose so like invasion,—
You would have sworn, to smell him, ’twas no rat,
But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.
He reach’d the spot, anticipating blisses,
Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,
Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;
When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.
Now, on his head it came, now on his face,
His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;
In short, on almost every place