"Now, then, landlord! Where's the lemons? Bless my soul, you're not going to make us drink unlemoned punch? As well give us a King without a Crown, or a parson without a gown."
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—
Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—
Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.
In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"—So! the lemons at last? Where's a silver knife to cut them with? Bless my soul! How it rains! I thank Providence the water is without, and the spirit is within."
"This rain will dowse the fires on the moor," said the yeoman.
"And would have washed your Tory zeal out of you," laughed Anthony, "had you gone out in it just now, shocked at our Whiggery."
"Oh! you," sneered Fox, "you took good care to say nothing. You were wise not to come within seeing distance with a pair of perspective glasses of Tyburn gallows, where men have been hung, disembowelled, and drawn for less offence than some of the words let drop to-night."