XIX.

For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, Smites his scald head, that is already sore,-- Superfluous wound,--such is Misfortune's rub! Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, That still, with backward fist he strives to dry; Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er, His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.