Creaks he continual challenge, spear in rest?
Wags he a menacing fore-finger still
At me through stout Sir William? Poor Sir Will!
How he'd like this! How little he likes that!
Purely recuperative! Here I've sat
Since luncheon—ruminating, reading, napping,
Thank heaven I cannot hear Lord Kelvin clapping
Castletown's callow clap-trap. All is still.
There's nothing near I wish to stalk or kill.
Like Melancholy Jaques, I can note