Rufa the Bolognese drains Rufule dry,(Wife to Menenius) she 'mid tombs you'll spy,The same a-snatching supper from the pyreFollowing the bread-loaves rolling forth the fireTill frapped by half-shaved body-burner's ire.
TO A CRUEL CHARMERBare thee some lioness wild in Lybian wold?Or Scylla barking from low'st inguinal fold?With so black spirit, of so dure a mould,E'en voice of suppliant must thou disregardIn latest circumstance ah, heart o'er hard?