Now, on his head it came, now on his face, His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back; In short, on almost every place We read of in the Almanack.
Blows rattle'd on him thick as hail; Making him rue the day that he was born;-- Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail, And thrash'd as if he had been thrashing corn.
At length, a thump,--(painful the facts, alas! Truth urges us Historians to relate!)-- Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate, It acted like a perfect _coup de grace_.
Whether it was a random shot, Or aim'd maliciously,--tho' Fame says _not_-- Certain his soul (the Knight so crack'd his crown) Fled from his body; but which way it went, Or whether Friars' souls fly up, or down, Remains a matter of nice argument.
Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon; Enough, for me, his body is not gone;
For I have business, still, in my narration, With the fat carcass of this holy porpus; And Death, tho' sharp in his Administration, Never suspended such an _Habeas Corpus_.
READER! if you have Genius, you'll discover, Do what you will to keep it cool, It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over, Upon a fool.
Haven't you (lucky man if _not_) been vex'd, Worn, fretted, and perplex'd, By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave, A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?
And haven't you, all christian patience gone, At last, put down the puppy with your wit;-- On whom it seem'd, tho' you had Mines of it, Extravagance to spend a jest upon?--
And haven't you, (I'm sure you have, my friend!) When you have laid the puppy low,-- All little pique, and malice, at an end,-- Been sorry for the blow? And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,) "Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?"
Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;-- Whose Genius didn't much disturb his pate: It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,-- Like many other men's of good estate:
Thus did Sir Thomas say;--and well he might, When pity to resentment did succeed; For, certainly, (tho' not with _wit_) the Knight Had hit the Friar very hard, indeed! And heads, nineteen in twenty, 'tis confest, Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.
There was, in the Knight's family, a man Cast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts; With shoulders wider than a dripping pan, And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.