We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find,
That nimblest creature of the busy kind.
}
{ His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes;
{ Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
{ No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still