Yea, in rage my teeth I gnash,
And blow sparks from mouth and ears.
Now in me full plain appears
That if the Lord’s wrath we arouse in aught,
All we spirits may do is less than nought.
I fear me with this soul I need no longer tarry.
THE UNCLE
Go we, niece Mary, and I will you carry
To the deacon’s and there make up a fire.
Methinks your limbs be broke, for higher