The champ of which doth try my patience sore.
And soon thou hast to scud from angry scratch and claw,
And often thou must bite afresh ere surfeited thy maw!
Hadst thou instead of escharotic teeth
Been furnished with a blood-extracting bill,
Which once insinuated skin beneath,
The worst were past; I’d feel no thrill
To make me shiver as though an ague chill
Did all my joints and nerves undo,
Till I sit chattering like a fanning mill,