Xiii

And that’s where it is—she made me feel I was a rascal: but people who scorn, And tell a poor patch-breech he isn’t genteel, Why, they make him kick up—and he treads on a corn. It isn’t liking, it’s curst ill-luck, Drives half of us into the begging-trade: If for taking to water you praise a duck, For taking to beer why a man upbraid?