Such fearless souls don’t emanate below.
My grief! what savage fights that man has fit,
And how genteel he can get up and git!
’F I hadn’t vowed not to unite again,
I’m not quite certain but I should cave in.
Since poor dear Sic was slew by brother Pyg,
For no live man I’ve ever cared a fig,
Till unto Carthage this brave hero came—
But now—I swan—I feel the ancient flame.
Yet, while Sichæus keeps his coffined state,