’Ycleft by sinners on earth, the devil;
But before he could tell what his spirits were at,
In popp’d father Satan in shape of a cat.
And he skipp’d thro’ the key-hole with terrible pother,
A match in one hand, and his tail in the other;
And said to the Baron, with funeral glee,
“Come, leap thro’ the window, and fly with me;
For I’m the mastiff that kick’d up a rout,
And my broomstick is waiting to carry you out.”
The Baron requested a little delay;