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 And so this Ox, in frantic mood, Faced round like any Bull— The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued, Till they with heat and fright were stewed, And not a chick of all this brood But had his belly full.

Old Nick's astride the beast, 'tis clear— Old Nicholas, to a tittle! But all agree, he'd disappear, Would but the Parson venture near, And through his teeth, right o'er the steer, Squirt out some fasting-spittle.

Achilles was a warrior fleet, The Trojans he could worry— Our Parson too was swift of feet, But shew'd it chiefly in retreat: The victor Ox scour'd down the street, The mob fled huriy-scurry.