Cannibals, Anthropophagi, bare Poles
Who never knew a tailor but by taste.
Ros. Look, look! Unless my fancy misconceive
With twilight—down among the rocks there, Fife—
Some human dwelling, surely—
Or think you but a rock torn from the rocks
In some convulsion like to-day’s, and perch’d
Quaintly among them in mock-masonry?
Fife. Most likely that, I doubt.
Ros. No, no—for look!