And the cypress black: for I get no ease
By day or by night for the cursed fleas,
That skip about my pillow."


IX

"Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer,
For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son,
And your blankets both, and dried them upon
The brimstony banks of Acheron--
It is not the _fleas_ that bite, son."


X

"O I perish of cold these bitter sharp nights,
The damp like an ague ferrets;
The ice and the frost hath shot into the bone;
And I care not greatly to sleep alone
O! nights--for the fear of Spirits."


XI

"The weather is warm, my own sweet boy,
And the nights are close and stifling;
And for fearing of Spirits, you cowardly Elf--
Have you quite forgot you're a Spirit yourself?
Come, come, I see you are trifling.