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?