Yt is an ancient Monster,
And yt touches one in three.
'By zounds do not disturb,’ yowe plead;
‘Wher-fore plague thou me?’

The gætt of thinken opened wyde,
Curtailed from rest below;
The dark is met, the trial set:
Each tick-tock metes a blow.

Yt taunts yowe with a ghastly knell,
o’er the gate of young to-morrow—
welmanig sheep, and then the beep
Eftsoons, strung out with sorrow.

Yt fixes ye with open eye—
Ev’n heathens wont to praye.
They pleadeth like a three years' child;
The Monster hath its way.

Unending dayes! This tail of loss
is certain to have stung!
Instead of the cross, this Albatross
About yower neck is hung.