Come, let him make a small collusion
And, when he writes his next effusion,
Grant me, we'll say, six years' exclusion
From re-assessments of his robbery.
And then—I may come in.
But, if the fiend still stays importunate,
My blood is up. Ad lib.,
Till at the door the bailiff rattles
And rude men reave me of my chattels,
I shall prolong these wordy battles,