. . .How came they to be— This I cannot understand,— In such company? . . . . . The goddess a miscarriage had, good lack! And was delivered of an—Almanac! THE HYPOCHONDRIACAL PLUTO. A ROMANCE. BOOK I. The sullen mayor who reigns in hell, By mortals Pluto hight, Who thrashes all his subjects well, Both morn and eve, as stories tell, And rules the realms of night, All pleasure lost in cursing once, All joy in flogging, for the nonce. The sedentary life he led Upon his brazen chair Made his hindquarters very red, While pricks, as from a nettle-bed, He felt both here and there: A burning sun, too, chanced to shine, And boiled down all his blood to brine. 'Tis true he drank full many a draught Of Phlegethon's black flood; By cupping, leeches, doctor's craft, And venesection, fore and aft, They took from him much blood. . . . Read More