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168
Are those her Ribs, thro' which the Sun
Did peer, as thro' a grate?
And are those two all, all her crew,
That Woman, and her Mate?
His bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare, I ween;
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
They were patch'd with purple and green.
Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
And she was far liker Death than he;
Her flesh made the still air cold.
