The brutes were laid at peace with.
Ting’d in tobacco’s baleful oil,
Her presents made her rival broil
Past Jason’s art of quenching:
And when he swore revenge, the witch
Mounted aloft astride her switch,
Pleas’d she had spoil’d his wenching.
Under the blue I’d rather live,
And the sun’s fiercest rays receive,
How apt soe’er to burn us: