The World’s Tragedy

THE BLUE DWARF. 93 MIRIAM Have ye no pity, kings, at this disease ? O then I am a mere muck-midden of shame. But yet my body feeds on flame As if some masterpiece Were wrought — I know not how — pray cease ! Leave me with these ! CHAU Midden or maiden, we must see the birth Of thy black womb. Why do these moans disturb our mirth ? I will have thee lashed to shreds By this vile groom Unless thou quit thy prating. THE HAG Here’s pay for months of waiting. She detaches the placenta. A black old rotten wine-skin, mangy goat Patched with bat, stork, and stoat !