Loves me better by far than a cherry that’s ripe:
Who gives them their tone and their moisture but I?
And therefore for ever I’ll utter my cry
Of—
Chorus.Croak! croak! croak!
Bacchus. I’m blistered, I’m flustered, I’m sick, I’m ill.
Chorus.Croak! croak! croak!
Bacchus. My dear little bull-frog, do prithee keep still.
Chorus.Croak! croak! croak!
Bacchus. ’Tis a sorry vocation, that reiteration;