Oh why for Massa go so far a distance
To have him life?”——Here Pompey made a stop,
Putting an awful period to existence.
“Not go to Ireland—not to Ireland, fellow,
And murder’d—why should I be murder’d, Sirrah?”
Cried Case, with anger’s tinge upon his yellow,—
Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror
The Colonel’s saffron, and his own japan,—
“Well, what has that to do—quick—speak outright, boy?”