For I tolerate none but my own.
The mobs that collect in the Square
I can’t with indifference see,
So outspoken, so bold—I declare
Their language is shocking to me,
How sweet is the constable’s stave
For putting the rabble to flight,
When they bludgeon some vagabond knave,
Then arrest him for brawling outright!
Who talks of a free native land?