Savages are leading round your master—down, not dead.
Padua wants to burn me: balk them, let me linger
Life out—rueful though its remnant—hid in some safe hold behind you!
Prostrate here I lie: quick, help with but a finger
Lest I house in safety's self—a tombstone o'er my head!
"Lodging, bite and sup, with—now and then—a copper
—Alms for any poorer still, if such there be,—is all my asking.
Take me for your bedesman,—nay, if you think proper,
Menial merely,—such my perfect passion for repose!
Yes, from out your plenty Peter craves a pittance