Or the doctor who whisk’d her away.
Not long liv’d the Brewer; and none since that time,
To make use of the brewhouse presume;
For ’tis firmly believ’d that, by order sublime,
There Sally Green suffers the pain of her crime,
And bawls to get out of the room.
At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite
With shrieks make the chamber resound,
“I won’t take the rhubarb!” she squalls in affright,
While, a cup in his left hand, a draught in his right,