 | The Ingoldsby Legends |  |
Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew,
As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe
From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel,
With a business-like air was beginning to feel
Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal,
When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel.
“Stay, Shylock,” says he, Here's one thing—you see
This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood!
—The words are “A pound of flesh,”—that's clear as mud—
Slice away, then, old fellow—but mind!—if you spill
One drop of his claret that's not in your bill,
I'll hang you, like Haman?—By Jingo I will!”
As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe
From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel,
With a business-like air was beginning to feel
Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal,
When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel.
“Stay, Shylock,” says he, Here's one thing—you see
This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood!
—The words are “A pound of flesh,”—that's clear as mud—
47
One drop of his claret that's not in your bill,
I'll hang you, like Haman?—By Jingo I will!”
| The Ingoldsby Legends | |