“A poet, John!” said Villars—feebly said,
Confused with fear, and humbled and dismay’d—
“And where this carriage?—but, my heart! enough—
Why do I listen to the villain’s stuff?—
And where wert thou? and what the spur of thine 340
That led thee forth?—we surely may divine!”
“Hunger, your Honour! I and my poor wife
Have now no other in our wane of life.
Were Phœbe handsome, and were I a Squire,
I might suspect her, and young Lords admire.”—