I think you live beneath a roof that is upheld by me. I think you seldom walk abroad, but my fair form you see. I close you in on every side, you very dwelling pave, and probably I'll go with you at last into the grave. What am I?
I saw a fight the other day, a damsel did begin the fray. She with her daily friend did meet, then standing in the open street, she gave such hard and sturdy blows, he bled ten gallons at the nose, yet neither seemed to faint nor fall, nor gave her an abuse at all. What am I?