3120Quoth he, 'Thou son of Somnus, drowsy slave!
Why didst thou not at my loud summons rise?
But in a fit of lunacy did rave
As though thy wit had ta'en some new disguise?
I'll be your Hob, your hag: and, though I'm loath,
Will now chastise thee for thy feignèd sloth.'
But whilst his passion took a breathing space,
The wak'ned porter from his fists did creep,
Fixèd his goggles on his youthful face,
And then rememb'red his prophetic sleep.