A third crooks all her finger-joints together,

A fourth rips her up laces and her bows,

While all by turns keep trampling on her toes,

And, when she gasps for breath, they pour in plump

A sudden drench that down her thorax goes,

As if in fetching her—some wits so jump—

She must be fetched with water like a pump!

“SHE’S BLACK IN THE FACE!”

No wonder that thus drench’d, and wrench’d, and gall’d,