Ii

The father of a world unborn-- Who hath begotten death, ere life-- In sullen silence plods forlorn; His love and pride in his fair wife Are rage and scorn.

Instead of Angel ministers, What hath he now but fiends devouring; Instead of grapes and melons, burs; In lieu of manna, crab and souring-- By whose fault? Hers!

Alack, good sire of feeble knees, New penance waits thee; since--when thus Thou shouldst have wept for all of us-- Thou mournest thine own ease I