A subject much smaller than this I rehearse
Was never attempted in prose or in verse;
A pitiful button is all I shall own;
You may sing it, or say it, or let it alone.

That button, though polish'd, won't answer quite pat,
With which the recruit first adorns his new hat,
For this I consider no part of my charge,
Though round as a trencher, and nearly as large.

Nor shall in my poem that button be found
By which Mr. Bratt acquir'd ten thousand pound.
Though it pleases the eye while the pocket it fills,
And causes, most sweetly, to run the chaise wheels.

No gingerbread button will suit me compleat,
Nor that often made after eating roast meat;
Nor shall, in my rhyme, any button be seen,
But that finger'd by the loquacious 'Squire Green.

One end of whose tale you may find without pain,
But the other, like fortune, you wish for in vain;
You're restless, you move, but no end's in your pow'r;
Have patience, my friend, you'll not find it this hour.

An ill fated Button on Shipton's right breast
Was held by 'Squire Green, which disturb'd its soft rest;
While one tedious story began to transpire,
Long and sweet as a journey three miles in the mire.

Poor Shipton to ev'ry eye would now appear tied,
And felt but so so with his button and ear tied;
He edg'd and he turn'd every way he could see,
But when he'd tried all there were none to get free.

Most irksome he felt from his foot to his head,
And ere the tale ended his patience was fled;
Then instant the button cut off with his knife--
'Take that and be damn'd, and I'll run for my life.'

Then let the tale-teller be sure, without fail,
That button and patience will last out the tale;
But if on this plan he should give you no quarter,
Let his tongue, or his story, be cut rather shorter.