He reckon'd his herds, and his flocks, and his fleece,
And drove twice to market his ducks and his geese;
He babbled of training, and draining, and scythes,
And hoeing, and sowing, and taxes, and tithes.
“To the fair do you carry a pack, or a hunch?
Are you mountebank doctor, or pedlar, or Punch?
What is your calling? and what is your name?
Are you single, or married,—or coward, or game?”
Poor Harlequin, fretting, lay silent and still,
While the farmer's glib tongue went as fast as a mill.