Nor scrub’d his angry brow, nor pared
The bristles of his shaggy beard.
He by your chop or steak shall sit,
Hissing on gridiron, or on spit,
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, I beg you, to repose.
Tim. Once yet again awake, and tell us
Who are those surly ragged fellows;
Why each about so madly hops,
Howling, and tugging tarry ropes;