Chapter LXXXVII

Then spake a Panatela finely rolled, "If to a fiery Doom I must be sold, Then let it be my happy Fate to find A high-born Mouth whose Teeth are filled with Gold."

LXXXVIII

An auburn Weed uprose as one surprised. "If for a Martyr's Death I so am prized, May not my hallowed Ashes be preserved That Saint Cigar I may be canonized?"