And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.
Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.
On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.
And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.