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See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare!} Much needs he stuffing:—while young Ammon there } Rehearses—in a garret—ten feet square! } And as his soft Statira sighs consent, Roxana comes not—but a dun for rent! Here shivering Edgar, in his blanket roll'd, Exclaims—with too much reason, "Tom's a-cold!" And vainly tries his sorrows to divert, While Goneril or Regan—wash his shirt!

Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward! mighty king! Revolves—a mutton chop upon a string! And Hotspur, plucking "honour from the moon," Feeds a sick infant with a pewter spoon!

More blest the Fisher, who undaunted braves In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves;