Which the sun, arch-chemist old,
Turn’d from black earth into gold,
And the swinging flail one day
On the barn-floor shall assay,
Separating the pure ore
From the drossy chaff away.
This I’ve been about—And now,
Juanito, what hast thou?
Juan. Alas, sir, I can’t answer in so good rhyme or reason. I have been playing at fives, and lost every bout.
Cres. What signifies if you paid?