(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
  Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
  Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
                              Pitiful story.

  Knife-grinder.

  Story!  God bless you!  I have none to tell, sir,
  Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
  This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
                              Torn in the scuffle.

  Constable came up for to take me into
  Custody; they took me before the Justice,
  Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish
                              Stocks for a vagrant.

  I should be glad to drink your honour’s health in
  A pot of beer, if you would give me sixpence;
  But, for my part, I never love to meddle
                              With politics, sir.

  Friend of Humanity.

  I give thee sixpence!  I will see thee damned first—­
  Wretch! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeance—­
  Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
                              Spiritless outcast!

[Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

LIII.  SONG BY ROGERO THE CAPTIVE.

This is a satirical imitation of many of the songs current in the romantic dramas of the period.  It is contained in the Rovers, or the Double Arrangement, act i. sc. 2, a skit upon the dramatic literature of the day.

  Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
    This dungeon, that I’m rotting in,
  I think of those companions true
  Who studied with me in the U-
     -niversity of Gottingen—­
     -niversity of Gottingen.
    [Weeps, and pulls out a blue ’kerchief, with which
      he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he
      proceeds.

  Sweet ’kerchief check’d with heavenly blue,
    Which once my love sat knotting in,
  Alas, Matilda then was true,
  At least I thought so at the U-
     -niversity of Gottingen—­
     -niversity of Gottingen.
    [At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks
      his chain in cadence.

  Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift ye flew,
    Her neat post-waggon trotting in! 
  Ye bore Matilda from my view;
  Forlorn I languish’d at the U-
     -niversity of Gottingen—­
     -niversity of Gottingen.

  This faded form! this pallid hue! 
    This blood my veins is clotting in,
  My years are many—­they were few
  When I first entered at the U-
     -niversity of Gottingen—­
     -niversity of Gottingen.

  There first for thee my passion grew,
    Sweet; sweet Matilda Pottingen! 
  Thou wast the daughter of my tutor,
  Law Professor at the U-
     -niversity of Gottingen—­
     -niversity of Gottingen