How doth the little paddocki
Improve his wartish skin
So that it glows most merrily
In every lowish den!
How cunningly he plights his trap
Baited with his jewels
And labours to enrapt
Divers credulous fools.
In works of ardor or in swill
He has no subtlety,
But strives for ere for his will
With damned dexterity.
In hel, in fire, or witches brew,
He may be found at last,
With this curse upon his crew,
"May their own stones be passes!"