FOR me the most foul demon still doth plot; About me like the imponderable air He flows. I drink him, and straightway am hot With shameful lusts the tongue may not declare. And since he knows how I love form, he wins My soul in woman's guise, or else he'll tell Some pious tale of washing out my sins To tempt me to a draught that's brewed in Hell. He leads me far away from God's clear eyes, Halt and most sore still am I onward lured To endless plains of speechless miseries, Whereon unto my weary eyes and blurred He shows red scars, foul raiment, and the shape Of gory Ruin with her wounds a-gape. |