We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."
We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.