THE BLUE DWARF. 
93 
MIRIAM 
 
Have ye no pity, kings, at this disease ?  
O then I am a mere muck-midden of shame.  
But yet my body feeds on flame  
As if some masterpiece  
Were wrought — I know not how — pray cease !  
Leave me with these ! 
 
CHAU 
 
Midden or maiden, we must see the birth  
Of thy black womb.  
Why do these moans disturb our mirth ?  
I will have thee lashed to shreds  
By this vile groom  
Unless thou quit thy prating. 
 
THE HAG 
 
Here’s pay for months of waiting. 
 
She detaches the placenta. 
 
A black old rotten wine-skin, mangy goat  
Patched with bat, stork, and stoat !