It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease,
In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With his friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest Old Stingo sat soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full big as a Dorchester Butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had dissolved it again,
A potter found out, in its covert so snug,
And with part of Fat Toby he form’d this brown jug;