Sonnets, Sonnet I

Hence Sickness, nor about my weary head Thy languid vapours wrap, and drooping wings: Better would'st thou thy baleful poison shed In some dark cave where the Night-raven sings, Where heavy sits the gloom-delighted Owl, Where Aconite its loathsome juices throws; Where dwells the Bat, and Serpents hissing foul, And fell Despair, who never knows repose: There drag with thee the wretch, who has betray'd His trust, has ruin'd innocence, or spilt The sacred blood of him who gave him life; Him torture there: nor will the lovely maid, The sweet-ey'd Mercy, conscious of his guilt, Restrain thy hand, or blunt thy sharpen'd knife.