“Where are you going? and whence do you come?
How long do you tarry?—the deuce! are you dumb?”
“I'm the hangman” said Harlequin, sir, of the town;
I cut in the morning a highwayman down;
And fix in the market-place up, for a flag,
To-morrow his head, which I bear in my bag!”
The talkative farmer jump'd up in a fright—
(“If you look for the bag, friend, it lies on your right!”)
Ran out of the chamber, and roar'd for the host,
Shrieking, and shaking, and pale as a ghost!