“On Sundays, ever smiling as in scorn,
Passing our houses, he would boldly rove;
We gave his case up as of one forlorn,
And for his person pined in hopeless love.
“One morn we track’d him near th’ accustom’d spot
Along the Strand, and by his favourite she—
Another came; yet still we caught him not,
But on the third, we nabb’d a youth,—’twas he.
“The next, with warrant due, we brought our man,
Snug to the Bench, here all the way from town,