To out knife, off mouthful: when—who could suppose
Such malice in magic?—each sot woke and found
Cold steel but an inch from the neighbor's red nose
He took for a grape-bunch!
Fust. Does that so astound
Sagacity such as ye boast,—who surround
Your mate with eyes staring, hairs standing erect
At his magical feats? Are good burghers unversed
In the humors of toping? Full oft, I suspect,
Ye, counting your fingers, call thumbkin their first,