Why at the slacken’d cords they swear,
And fluttering sails that flap in air:
Tell me whence this hubbub rose,
Then I leave thee to repose.
Mate. Ha! no traveller art thou;
Fresh-water fiend, I smoke thee now
As ignorant a rogue as ever—
Tim. No mate genteel, polite, and clever,
Art thou; nor ever wert a sailor;
But, as I rather guess, a tailor.