With thee conversing I forget all time.
Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb, counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, not peace.
So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.