II

He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights,
That was fit for a fiend's disportal;
For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn,
Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn
Of the best down beds that are mortal.


III

His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved,
With groanings corresponding;
And mincing and few were the words he spoke,
While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke
From a heart that seem'd desponding.


IV

Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam,
I think none e'er was older:
Her years--old Parr's were nothing to them;
And a chicken to her was Methusalem,
You'd say, could you behold her.


V