A man’s thigh-bone in moonshine bleach’d
T’ enforce new torments she outstretch’d,
For never her vindictive mind
Allows to rest the Nidding kind:
This bone exhal’d a corpse-like smell;
On high she waved it like a wand;
It made all crouch; it serv’d full well
As sceptre in her clammy hand.
No sound, but moans to make flesh creep,
Here interrupts the silence deep;