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46 But to ome people if you give &emsp;An inch—they’ll take an ell.

The youth then drew his martial knife, &emsp;And eiz’d the Baron’s collar, He wore he’d have the Baron’s life, &emsp;Or ele another dollar.

Then did the Baron in a fume, &emsp;Soon raie a mighty din, Whereon came butler, huntman, groom, &emsp;And eke the whipper-in.

Maugre this young man’s warlike coat, &emsp;They bore him off to prion; And held o trongly by his throat, &emsp;They almoft topt his whizzen.

Soon may a neckcloth, call’d a rope, &emsp;Of robbing cure this elf; If o I’ll write, without a trope, &emsp;His dying peech myelf.

And had the Baron chanc’d to die, &emsp;Oh! grief to all the nation, I mut have made an elegy, &emsp;And not this fine narration.

Henceforth let thoe who all have pent, &emsp;And would by begging live, Take warning here, and be content, &emsp;With what folks chue to give.

Your mue, Mr. Butler, is in a very inventive humour this morning.