By the cold breast and serpent smile,
By the unfathom'd cults of guile,
By that most seeming virtuous eye,
By thy shut souls hypocrisy,
By the perfection of thy art,
- Which pass'd for human thine own heart -
By the delight in other's pain,
And by the brotherhood of Cain,
A spirit of the air,
Hath begirt thee with a snare.
In the wind there is a voice,
Shall forbid thee to rejoice.
And to thee shall night deny,
All the quiet of the sky, and the day shall have a sun,
Which make thee wish it done..
From false tears I did distill,
An essence which hath strength to kill.
From thy own heart I then did wring
The black blood in its blackest spring.