At the Prophet's question scowling,
All the Wives stood moaning, howling,
Crying wildly in a fever,
"O the villain! the deceiver!"
But the oldest stepping boldly,
Curtseying to the Session coldly,
Cried in voice like cracking thunder,
"Prophet, don't you make a blunder?
Abraham Clewson isn't dying—
Hasn't died, as you're implying