My Yot!
What makes me, in short, an egregious ass,
A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot
For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass?
My Yot!
At Whitby.—Visitor (to Ancient Mariner, who has been relating his experiences to crowd of admirers). "Then do you mean to tell us that you actually reached the North Pole?"
Ancient Mariner. "No, sir; that would be a perwersion of the truth. But I seed it a-stickin' up among the ice just as plain as you can this spar, which I plants in the sand. It makes me thirsty to think of that marvellous sight, we being as it were parched wi' cold."
[A. M.'s distress promptly relieved by audience.