He’s young: look yourself; jest you roll up his
lip;
By the way, ever smile? I’ve some stuff on my
hip.
Now as I was sayin’”—and on, and so on,
Till Cicero’d put his suspenders in pawn,
Hand oyer his steed for a wind-broken brute,
And sling in some golden sestertia to boot.
I tell you again,
That of all of the men