Keir! Occleve! Let them come. Why don't they come?
Why stop to tell them that?--the devil strike you dumb.
"I'm neither doll nor dead; come in, come in.
Curse you, you women, quick," the sick man flamed.
"I shall be dead before I can begin.
A sick man's womaned-mad, and nursed and damed."
Death had him by the throat; his wrath was tamed.
"Come in," he fumed; "stop muttering at the door."
The friends came in; a creaking ran across the floor.
"Now, Nick, how goes it, man?" said Occleve. "Oh,"