Jack Ketch himself from Cupid's noose
By no means feels secure.
The butcher—heretofore so hard—
Feels in his heart a skewer.
The miser (harder far than both)
Now opens with avidity
His chest—his heart, I meant to say:—
For Cupid, cuts Cupidity.
The beasts are just in the same plight;
The horse, the ass, the steer: