They have certainly buried the usurer’s soul.
While Fell was reposing himself on the hay,
A reptile conceal’d bit his leg as he lay;
But all venom himself, of the wound he made light,
And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.
So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech,
One scarcely can tell if you’re laughing or crying;
Were you fix’d on one’s funeral sermon to preach,