Yet it is odd he should o’erlook the fact
That underneath this church of his are stored
Some twenty barrels of the dusky grain,
The secret of whose framing, in an hour
Of diabolic jollity and mirth,
Old Roger Bacon wormed from Belzebub!
He might keep better wardship for his friends;
But that to me is nothing. Now’s the time!
Ha! as I take the matchbox in my hand,
A spasm pervades me, and a natural thrill