ROSAURA. There, four-footed Fury, blast

Engender'd brute, without the wit

Of brute, or mouth to match the bit

Of man—art satisfied at last?

Who, when thunder roll'd aloof,

Tow'rd the spheres of fire your ears

Pricking, and the granite kicking

Into lightning with your hoof,

Among the tempest-shatter'd crags

Shattering your luckless rider

Back into the tempest pass'd?

There then lie to starve and die,

Or find another Phaeton

Mad-mettled as yourself; for I,

Wearied, worried, and for-done,

Alone will down the mountain try,

That knits his brows against the sun.

FIFE (as to his mule). There, thou mis-begotten thing,

Long-ear'd lightning, tail'd tornado,

Griffin-hoof-in hurricano,

(I might swear till I were almost

Hoarse with roaring Asonante)

Who forsooth because our betters

Would begin to