I told him, and he owned it might be so,
Your tempers never could in concert flow.
But ‘Mark,’ he added, ‘Ronald! from our door
Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor;
Let not your souls the niggardness evince
Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince;
He gave you life—then feed him as you’d feed
Your very father were he cast in need.’
He gave—you’ll find it by your bed to-night,
A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright: