"How comes it, Rocinante, you're so lean ?" R.

"I'm underfed, with overwork I'm worn." B.

"But what becomes of all the hay and corn ?" R.

"My master gives me none; he's much too mean." B.

"Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween; 'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn." R.