Monkshood.
’Twill pursue you night and day,
In your work and in your play.
Butter spoilt before it’s churned,
Biscuits sour, porridge burned—
Lily. Cows that sicken in the stall,
Fruit that rots upon the wall,
Bluebell. Thornies pricking in your bed,
Nightmares grinning overhead—
All. Foolish mortal, have a care!