Here are his horns," and he held them up, "once they grew upon the head of Widow Johnson's billy-goat.

Here's his tail, many a fly has it flicked off the belly of an Abbey cow.

Here's his ugly mug, begotten of parchment and the paint-box.

Here's his dreadful fork that drives the damned to some hotter corner; it has been death to whole stones of eels down in the marsh-fleet yonder.

I have some hell-fire too among the bag of tricks; you'll make the best of brimstone and a little oil dried out upon the hearth.