Need, when beset by hunger in the waste,

For food or friendship takes whatever comes.

The Tartars, scorning kitchens in their haste,

Could cook their food on horseback with their bums.

As beggars pool their botches by the way—

The lame upon the eyeless blinkers ride:

Or drunkards (herding phantom sheep that stray)

Who help each other on—from side to side!

Or if as wrecked survivors on a raft

Pecksniff with Bobadil had manned one craft

To share provisions—one his good advice,

And one his oaths and last remaining lice …

Instead of feeling sore you could have laughed

At your mistake, and let the truth suffice.