‘O who'll get me a healthy child:—
I should prefer a son—
Seven have I had in thirteen years,
Sickly every one!

‘Three mope about as feeble shapes;
Weak; white; they'll be no good.
One came deformed; an idiot next;
And two are crass as wood.

‘I purpose one not only sound
In flesh, but bright in mind:
And duly for producing him
A means I've now to find.’

She went away. She disappeared,
Years, years. Then back she came:
In her hand was a blooming boy
Mentally and in frame.

‘I found a father at last who'd suit
The purpose in my head,
And used him till he'd done his job,’
Was all thereon she said.