Byron

Like mad-dog in the hottest day
Byron runs snapping strait away,
And those unlucky fellows judge ill
Who go without a whip or cudgel.

The boots I wear are high and strong,
Wherefore I take no whip or thong ;
Yet, I confess it, I am loth.
People should see them daub'd with froth,
Tho' dogs that rave with this disease
Lift not their heads above my knees,
It's prudent not to carry home
The worst of poison in their foam.