Of the dark demon hovering o’er his head,
Drawing the blood from visage cold and wan,
Till fully gorged it leaves the sleeper’s bed,
And he, awaking, scarce believes he has been freely bled.
But thou, black delver, what virtue canst thou claim?
Save great activity, which makes me hate thee more.
Through night and day thy laboring is the same,
Insatiate ever, thou never wilt give o’er,
But glutton-like, still sap and bite, and bore.
Yet truly thou art cursed in having such a jaw,