'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I'll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some "bait stables" plain.
(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,
A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's appears.)
And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this water's brink,
Here—what's thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!
Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o'er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I've tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!