(Here, bets upon Beelzebub; three to two.)
3. Fibbings, and facers, and toppers abound,
But Satan, it seems, hath the worst of the round.
4. Satan was floored by a lunge in the hip,
And the blood from his peepers, went drip, drip, drip,
Like fat from a goose in the dripping pan,
Or ale from the brim of a flowing can;
His box of dominos chattered aloud,
(Here, “Go it, Nick!” from an imp in the crowd,)
And he dropped with a Lancashire purr on his back,