Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow,
And friends portended was preparing for
A human pâté périgord;
She was, indeed, so very far from well,
Her son, in filial fear, procured a box
Of those said pellets to resist bile’s shocks,
And, tho’ upon the ear it strangely knocks,
To save her by a Cockle from a shell!
But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,
Who very vehemently bids us “throw