Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/94

Rh

A step without a gibe? Pitfalls are set About my path, and I am sorely bruised By sticks and stones cast by the village fry Whene'er I wander forth; your brats are taught To maim my cats, I soon shall be without A shed to screen me from the storms; the roof Is pulled about my ears. The murrain take Your beasts, the red plague hang on all!

Stay! stay! Nay do not curse good mother; you should strive With meekness and with gentleness to turn Their stubborn hearts.

Turn stones and rocks—'twould be A task as easy. Preach not peace to me. I hate the canting vermin, and I'll spend My latest breath in railing. Blisters be Upon your slanderous lips! famine and pestilence Feed on your vitals!