Of bringing grist to other people's mills,
While for itself no office it fulfils,
And cannot choose but starve amazingly,
Methinks 'tis very like the dog's-meat dog,
That 'twixt Black Friars and White sometimes I've seen,—
Afflicted quadruped, jejune and lean,
Whom none do feed, but all do burn to flog.
For why? He draws the dog's-meat cart, you see,—
Himself a dog. All dogs his coming hail,
Long dogs and short, and dogs of various tail,