They say we’re the root of all evil, and repeat it again and again;
Of war and quarrels and bloodshed; all mischief, be it what it may;
And, pray then, why do you marry us, if we’re all the plagues you say?
And why do you take such care of us, and keep us safe at home;
And are never easy a moment, if ever we chance to roam?
When you ought to be thanking heaven that your Plague is out of the way,
You all keep fussing and fretting—“where is my Plague to-day?”
If a Plague peeps out of the window, up go the eyes of the men;
If she hides, then they all keep staring until she looks out again.