The Welshman he loved toasted cheese,
And made his mouth like a mouse-trap.
Usquebaugh burnt the Irishman,
The Scot was drown'd in ale;
The Welshman had like t' have been choak'd with a mouse,
But he pull'd her out by the tail.
1 Rob. Sung like true and noble boys of plunder! Isn't this free-booting spirit, now, better than leading a cowardly life of musty regularity? Honesty is a scarce and tender commodity, that perishes almost as soon as it appears:—the rich man is not known to have it, for fortune has never put him to the test; and the poor blockhead, that boasts on't, dies for hunger in proving it.
2 Rob. Right; it is but a fever in the blood, that soon kills the patient if it be not expelled.—I had the fever, once.
4 Rob. And what was your cure for't?
2 Rob. Starving. Ever while you live, starve your fever:—when honesty is your case, only call in poverty as physician, and the disease soon yields to his prescriptions.