The more he spoke, the more she stretched her throat. In vain he proffered all his goods, to save His body, destined to that living grave. The liquorish hag rejects the pelf with scorn, And nothing but the man would serve her turn. Not all the wealth of eastern kings, said she, Has power to part my plighted love, and me; And, old and ugly as I am, and poor, Yet never will I break the faith I swore; For mine thou art by promise, during life, And I thy loving and obedient wife.-- My love! nay rather my damnation thou, Said he: nor am I bound to keep my vow; The fiend thy sire has sent thee from below, Else how couldst thou my secret sorrows know? Avaunt, old witch, for I renounce thy bed: } The queen may take the forfeit of my head, } Ere any of my race so foul a crone shall wed.-- } Both heard, the judge pronounced against the knight; So was he married in his own despite: And all day after hid him as an owl, Not able to sustain a sight so foul. Perhaps the reader thinks I do him wrong, To pass the marriage-feast, and nuptial song: Mirth there was none, the man was _a-la-mort_, And little courage had to make his court. To bed they went, the bridegroom and the bride: Was never such an ill-paired couple tied! Restless he tossed, and tumbled to and fro, And rolled, and wriggled further off, for woe. The good old wife lay smiling by his side, And caught him in her quivering arms, and cried,-- When you my ravished predecessor saw, } You were not then become this man of straw; } Had you been such, you might have 'scaped the law. } Is this the custom of king Arthur's court? Are all round-table knights of such a sort? Remember I am she who saved your life, Your loving, lawful, and complying wife: Not thus you swore in your unhappy hour, Nor I for this return employed my power. In time of need I was your faithful friend; Nor did I since, nor ever will offend. Believe me, my loved lord, 'tis much unkind; What fury has possessed your altered mind? Thus on my wedding-night--without pretence-- Come turn this way, or tell me my offence. If not your wife, let reason's rule persuade; Name but my fault, amends shall soon be made.-- Amends! nay that's impossible, said he, What change of age or ugliness can be? Or could Medea's magic mend thy face, Thou art descended from so mean a race, } That never knight was matched with such disgrace. } What wonder, madam, if I move my side, } When, if I turn, I turn to such a bride?-- And is this all that troubles you so sore?-- And what the devil couldst thou wish me more?-- Ah Benedicite! replied the crone: Then cause of just complaining have you none. The remedy to this were soon applied, Would you be like the bridegroom to the bride: But, for you say a long-descended race, And wealth and dignity, and power, and place,