“If that Woman were here, dash my wigs.”
Cried he, “I’d come Luther and Knox at her,
I’d slate the old mother of prigs,
And raise my episcopal vox at her.
I fancied I’d made such a rare book,
And now I’m in just the wrong box for ’t;
Had I struck to my Anglican Prayer-book,
H should not have stuck Bishop of Oxford.”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
Moral.