They deemed it little scathe indeed / That her coarse homespun ragged weed / Fell off from her round arms and lithe / Laid on the door-post, that a withe / Of willows was her only belt; / And each as he gazed at her felt / As some gift had been given him.

And if the boy have not a woman's gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift

There is something humiliating in the idea of getting into a one-horse booby hutch.

Then forthwith to him takes a choſen band / Of Spirits likeſt to himſelf in guile / To be at hand, and at his beck appear,[…].