Hither with tottering gait is wont to come;And, wrinkled hands upraising to the stars,Begs that she'll never fail a yard to find;And, as yester'een she prayed ere daylight fledOne of three teeth she happened out to crache.'Bear it afar (cried I) and let it lurkBeneath thy tattered robe and tawny stole;(Fen as 'tis ever wont); and dread the fight