And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink.
Here—what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink, pretty (?) creature, drink!
Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!
Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?
Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal’d.
Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main
The asphalte! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.