Theatre Of Tragedy

Be my kin free fro carnal sin,
Bridle the toughts of thy Master.
There hath past away a glore fro the Earth;
A glore that in the hearts and minds of men,
Men demented - blindfolded by light,
Nourisheth as weed in their well-groom'd garths.
Might, I too was blindfolded 'ere,
Tho' years have master'd me
A masque of this to fashion:
Seer blest, thou best philosopher!
The quality of mercy and absolution,
Whence cometh such qualities?
Build thy self a mirror in which
Solely wanton images of thy
desire appear!
'Tis the Divine Comedy -
The fool and the mocking court:
Fool, kneel now, and ring thy bells!: