Then the Jew, with his box, did depart,
And the Poet took leave of his crib,
But the Parson, unwilling to start,
Took another sly st—ke at his rib;
If you think, then, my tale worth a toast,
As we’ve here no parsonical prig,
I’ll bumper life’s pleasure, and boast
The Parson, his wife, the goat’s fig.
[3] The box he carried was half pushed under the bed, on the corner of which he fell.