(Some way after Shakspeare.)
I know a Bank whereto the poor man goes.
If there too quickly his deposit grows,
I fancy ourMonopoly may decline,
No, no, at Thirty Pounds we'll draw the line,
Nor let the Artisan, however thrifty,
In the Post-Office pile an annual Fifty.
We've floored them this time after a good fight,
Government yields, to our extreme delight.
We Private Banks are saved, by our teeth's skin.