Chapter CCLXI

There was an old woman toss'd up in a basket
Nineteen times as high as the moon;
Where she was going I couldn't but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.

Old woman, old woman, old woman, quoth I,
O whither, O whither, O whither, so high?
To brush the cobwebs off the sky!
Shall I go with thee? Aye, by and by.