The write-hand of the Firm:
The Customs gave the box (where was
Reflection, then, O Sturm!)
And all the bags of gold, inside,
Were bagg'd, like briefs in Term.
They cabb'd the booty all away,
That boots might leave no tracks;
Then lugg'd the sacks out, one by one,
And laid them on their backs:
And marshall'd them all in a row,