Murder!
Hear not the bloody instrument of thy
wicked dreams,
Take but the sensible steps,
To see the ravishing present, not the
horror of thy creation
Thou still moves,
Like a sentinel, towards the dagger of thy
vision, to clutch it,
But the brain is oppressed
with the cold heat of thy wither’d strides
He lives,
But his eyes are curtain’d in his sleep,
not by nature,
And his breath is made dead
By thy fatal vision, and thy blade of
witchcraft
Art thou a wolf of abuse, in the dungeon?
That howls at the heat of this business
that fools thy stealthy mind,
Or art thou the hand of nature?
That informs thy other senses of no such
business