Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros' skin, Like a mummy's through its cerement; But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd What pinch'd her son; whom she thus address'd In terms that bespoke endearment. VII "What ails my Nicky, my darling Imp, My Lucifer bright, my Beelze? My Pig, my Pug-with-a-curly-tail, You are not well. Can a mother fail To see _that_ which all Hell see?" VIII "O Mother dear, I am dying, I fear; Prepare the yew, and the willow, 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. XII "I wish my Nicky is not in love"-- "O mother, you have nick't it"-- And he turn'd his head aside with a blush-- Not red hot pokers, or crimson plush, Could half so deep have prick'd it. XIII "These twenty thousand good years or more," Quoth he, "on this burning shingle I have led a lonesome Bachelor's life, Nor known the comfort of babe or wife-- 'Tis a long--time to live single." XIV Quoth she, "If a wife is all you want, I shall quickly dance at your wedding. I am dry nurse, you know, to the Female Ghosts "-- And she call'd up her charge, and they came in hosts To do the old Beldam's bidding: XV All who in their lives had been servants of sin-- Adulteress, Wench, Virago-- And Murd'resses old that had pointed the knife Against a husband's or father's life, Each one a She Iago. XVI First Jezebel came--no need of paint, Or dressing, to make her charming; For the blood of the old prophetical race Had heighten'd the natural flush of her face To a pitch 'bove rouge or carmine. XVII