Venemous toung, tipt with vile adders sting, Of that selfe kynd with which the Furies fell Theyr snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring Of poysoned words and spitefull speeches well, Let all the plagues and horrid paines of hell Upon thee fall for thine accursed hyre, That with false forged lyes, which thou didst tel, In my true love did stirre up coles of yre; The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre, And catching hold on thine own wicked hed, Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire In my sweet peace such breaches to have bred. Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward, Due to thy selfe, that it for me prepard. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT [1497] by KATHARINE LEE BATES MY LOVE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 3 by MARK AKENSIDE THREE FLOWERS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |