Where neither sun nor rain could go;
He, for the nearest cut he knows,
Is still before with pot and rose.
Cæsar observes him twist and shift,
And understands the fellow’s drift;
“Here, you sir,” says th’ imperial lord.
The bustler, hoping a reward,
Runs skipping up. The chief in jest
Thus the poor jackanapes address’d
“As here is no great matter done,