Sir, it was not commanding me to climb
The glassy hill, or wring the bloody shirt;
Such tasks are done in seven years' weary time,
And the performer takes no mortal hurt.

(O, but it was giving me a netful of eels to turn into venison pasty!)

It was not asking me to hold the brand
White from the smithy, or receive the lash
Across my weeping; these to burn the hand
And brow with different sort of lightning flash.

(No, but it was leaving me a stableful of straw to spin into golden mittens!)

It was not even nailing down my wrists
And ankles to a wheel in cruciform;
I know your mills require many grists,
And each but grinds subsistence for the worm.

(O, but it was making me suckle an imp after promising he was a Christian!)