fairly made an Honest Man of the Old One; and, if your
conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedict has
employment enough on his hands to desist from dabbling with the
affairs of poor mortals; he may fairly leave human nature to
herself; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the
attacks of this hitherto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be
seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in his
condition.

PART THE FIRST

I

The Devil was sick and queasy of late,
And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him;
His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd
Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd--
None knew what the devil ail'd him.

II

He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights,
That was fit for a fiend's disportal;
For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn,
Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn
Of the best down beds that are mortal.

III

His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved,
With groanings corresponding;
And mincing and few were the words he spoke,
While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke
From a heart that seem'd desponding.

IV

Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam,
I think none e'er was older:
Her years--old Parr's were nothing to them;
And a chicken to her was Methusalem,
You'd say, could you behold her.

V

She remember'd Chaos a little child,
Strumming upon hand organs;
At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat,
The ancientest there, and was godmother at
The christening of the Gorgons.

VI

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