III.

Stupid brains, while one might count As many beads as he had boroughs,-- At length replies; from his mean front, Like one who rubs out an account, Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows:

'It happens fortunately, dear Sir, I can. I hope I need require No pledge from you, that he will stir In our affairs;--like Oliver, That he'll be worthy of his hire.'

These words exchanged, the news sent off To Peter, home the Devil hied,-- Took to his bed; he had no cough, No doctor,--meat and drink enough,-- Yet that same night he died.

The Devil's corpse was leaded down; His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, Mourning-coaches, many a one, Followed his hearse along the town:-- Where was the Devil himself?

When Peter heard of his promotion, His eyes grew like two stars for bliss: There was a bow of sleek devotion Engendering in his back; each motion Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss.

He hired a house, bought plate, and made A genteel drive up to his door, With sifted gravel neatly laid,-- As if defying all who said, Peter was ever poor.

But a disease soon struck into The very life and soul of Peter-- He walked about--slept--had the hue Of health upon his cheeks--and few Dug better--none a heartier eater.

And yet a strange and horrid curse Clung upon Peter, night and day; Month after month the thing grew worse, And deadlier than in this my verse I can find strength to say.