Fiercer than the wrath of thousand Elephants, I find the hatred Of one tiny little bug, When across my bed it crawleth. One must let them bite in quiet,-- This is bad enough,--still more ’tis If one crushes them. The stink then Keeps one all night long in torment. Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble Is the fight with noxious vermin, Who a stench employ as weapons,-- Is a duel with a bug! CAPUT XII. How they rave, the race of poets, E’en the tame ones, singing ever And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely “The Creator’s mighty temple-- “Is a temple all whose glories “To our Maker’s fame bear witness, “Sun and moon and stars all hanging “In its cupola as lamps.” Well and good, my worthy people! Yet confess that in this temple Are the stairs uncomfortable, Bad and inconvenient stairs! All this up-and-down-stairs going, Mountain-climbing and this jumping Over rocks is very tiring To the legs as well as spirit. Close beside me walk’d Lascaro, Pale and lanky, like a taper; Never spoke he, never laugh’d he, He, the dead son of the sorc’ress. Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man, Dead long since, but yet his mother Old Uraca’s magic science Kept him living in appearance.-- That accursèd temple-staircase! It exceeds my comprehension How my neck escaped from breaking, Stumbling o’er a precipice. How the cataracts were shrieking! How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees Till they howl’d! The clouds began too Crashing suddenly--bad weather! In a little fishing cottage By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we Shelter and some trout for luncheon; Most delicious were the latter. In an arm-chair was reclining, Ill and grey, the ferryman; On him his two pretty nieces, Like a pair of angels, waited. Stoutish angels, rather Flemish, Seeming from a frame descended Of a Rubens; gold their tresses, Full of health their eyes, and liquid. Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled, With a secret slyness in them; Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous, Giving pleasure to the fancy. Dear, affectionate young creatures, Keeping up a sweet discussion, As to which drink would be relish’d Most of all by their sick uncle. If the one the cup should bring him Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms, Then the other hastes to feed him With an elder-flow’r decoction. “I’ll not drink of either of them,” “Cried impatiently the old man; “Fetch some wine, that I may offer “To my guests some better drink!” Whether it was wine they gave me At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick By the name of Mum they’d call it. Of the very best black goat-skin Was the wine-skin, stinking foully; Yet the old man drank with pleasure, And he seem’d quite well and joyous.