Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis,
As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba.
Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands
I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee,"
And spares the lash. When I behold a spider
Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,
Or view a butcher with horn-handle knife
Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,
Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [Exit hastily.