And what are its wages?—a carcass raw—
Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags,
This tortured head, and this body flayed,
Dyspepsia and gloom alway,
And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank
Who drones me through the day.
VI.
"Itch, itch, itch,
When good dinners glad the sight,
And scratch, scratch, scratch,