A Greek to the Eumenides

Your lips, old beldames, will get dry,
'Tis time to lay the spindle by.
With that incessant hum ye make
Ye will not let me lie awake,
Or, what is better, fall asleep . .
Ah! what a doleful din ye keep!
Unvaried all the year around
The tiresome tune; its tremulous sound
By fits and starts makes tremble too
Me who would fain get rid of you.
Maids are ye! maids whom Love derides
Until he almost cracks his sides.
He points at you, all skin and bones,
And stiff as horn and cold as stones.
I can not bear your nearer breath,
A pleasanter is that of Death.
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