A water-bottle's brought for her relief,
Not Nantz could sooner ease the lady's grief:
Her busy thoughts are on the trial bent,
And female-like, impatient for th' event:
The bonny knight reels home exceeding clear,
Prepared for clamour, and domestic war.
Entering, he cries, "Hey! where's our thunder fled?
No hurricane! Betty, 's your lady dead?"
Madam, aside, an ample mouthful takes,
Curtsies, looks kind, but not a word she speaks: