She is about: with caterpillars’ kells,
And knotty cobwebs, rounded in with spells.
Thence she steals forth to relief in the fogs,
And rotten mists, upon the fens and bogs,
Down to the drowned lands of Lincolnshire:
To make ewes cast their lambs, swine eat their farrow,
The housewives’ tun not work, nor the milk churn!
Writhe children’s wrists, and suck their breath in sleep:
Get vials of their blood! and where the sea
Casts up his slimy ooze, search for a weed