[14] Shakspeare certainly borrow'd this expression from Sir Thomas.--See _Macbeth_.
"Ah!" sigh'd Sir Thomas, "while I wander here, By fortune stamp'd a Homicide, alas!" (And, as he spoke, a penitential tear Mingled with Heaven's dew-drops, on the grass;)-- "Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?" "Sir Thomas," said the Duke of Limbs, "I wool."
He would have thrown the garbage in the moat, But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.
The Lout, at length, having bethought him, Heave'd up the Friar on his back once more; And (Castles having armories of yore) Into the Knight's old Armory he brought him.
Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail, That grace'd the walls, on high, in gallant shew,-- As pewter pots, in houses fame'd for ale, Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,--
A curious, antique suit was hoarded, Cover'd with dust; Which had, for many years, afforded An iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.
Though this was all too little,--in a minute, The Duke of Limbs ramm'd the fat Friar in it; So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin, To make black puddings, and stuffs hog's meat in.
The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass, Inquire'd the meaning; when the Duke did say,-- "I'll tie him on ould Dumpling, that's at grass, And turn him out, a top of the highway."
This Steed,--who now, it seems, was grazing,-- In the French wars had often borne the Knight;-- His symmetry beyond the power of praising, And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!
Once, how he paw'd the ground, and snuff'd the gale! Uncropp'd his ears, undock'd his flowing tail; No blemish was within him, nor without him; Perfect he was in every part;-- No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art, Had mutilated the least bit about him.
Of high Arabian pedigree, Father of many four-foot babes was he; And sweet hoof'd Beauties still would he be rumpling; But, counting five and twenty from his birth, At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth, He had obtain'd, alas! the name of Dumpling.
Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger; Saddle'd, and house'd,--in full caparison!-- Now on his back,--no rider larger,-- Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John: Arm'd cap-à-pié completely, like a knight Going to fight.
A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech: Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or 'Squire;-- The Duke, with thistles, switch'd old Dumpling's breech; And off he clatter'd with the martial Friar.