Ah, but with law ne'er hope

To level the fellow,—don't I know his trick!

How he draws up, ducks under, twists aside!

He 's a lean-gutted hectic rascal, fine

As pale-haired red-eyed ferret which pretends

'T is ermine, pure soft snow from tail to snout.

He eludes law by piteous looks aloft.

Lets Latin glance off as he makes appeal

To saint that 's somewhere in the ceiling-top:

Do you suppose I don't conceive the beast?