And I vainly dissemble the joy in my face
When he ceases to ply me with bottle and case.
The talk drifts away to affairs of the State,
And I ought to escape, but I palter and wait;
And he opens a box in the midst of his chat,
And asks, like a flash, my opinion of "that"?
I sniff the tobacco, and turn it about
With an air that is really of genuine doubt,
And knowing so little what judges would say,
I meekly consent to a hundred—and pay.