Stout T-th-m stood aghast with puffy face,
“To arms!” cried Beverly,[56] and couch’d his quiv’ring mace.
II.
At a window, which on high
Frowns o’er the market place below,
With trousers[57] on, and haggard eye,
A member stood immersed in woe,
His tatter’d gown, and greasy hair,
Stream’d like a dishclout to the onion’d air.
And with a voice that well might beat the cryer,