Theatre Of Tragedy

Filthy harlots – the Lord's grape!
With lore ornamented entreating;
Hollow hearted, heart-departed –
Yet thou reapest the blooming rose –
When 'tis the weed which is to be swath'd
I do in the blooming flower pleasure find!
And me in the yesterday's blind?!
Innocence is reserved for the meek:
Of naught is my grasp ne'er to be!
Hah! – for thee even a hound holdeth the throne.
Unwanted child of mother! – Plague of plagues!
Father of leprous children.
I wield ye to stint this brawl!
Nigh is the ford – yet harken! – do not thwart!
Desirest thou to do it withal,