Quoth she, “What is this so still and warm?”
“Tis Ball, my nag, he will do you no harm.”
“But what is this hangs under his chin?”
“Tis his bag he puts his provender in.” Quoth he,
“What is this?” Quoth she,
“’Tis a well where Ball, your nag, can drink his fill.”
“But what if my nag should chance to fall in?”
“Catch hold of the grass that grows on the brim.”
“But what if the grass should chance to fail?”
“Shove him in by the head, pull him out by the tail”
—Thomas D’Urfey, “The Trooper,” in Songs of Wit and Mirth or Pills to Purge Melancholy, 1719
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