Oh! did I bear a whip, ’twould be no crime
To work the oppressor’s wrong. For who would bear
The pangs of flea-bit nose, what people say
The insolence of scoffers, and the turns
Which, all impatient, through the night he takes,
When he himself could his quietus make
Could he but catch his foe? Who would bear
Candles, and sweat under a weary search,
And set, perhaps, the bed-clothes in a blaze,
And thereby haply reach that burn from which