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Theatre Of Tragedy - Seraphic Deviltry
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Whether He the quaint savant's power
doth held I now not,
Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth He is -
Zuoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
August of a granditude of servants is He held,

And by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host addéd are -

Pelf they are, dare I say!

Maugre His diurnal serphic deviltry
I say that deviltry - 'tis forsooth deviltry! -

Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;
To claim the glore is He suffer'd.

Grant me the fatlings, gouth He,the fatter the better!
And died they of starvation;
They are not slaughtering their fatlings -
They are slaughtering 'hemselves.

Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,
And dare I say this burthen weightful was,

Wrack of His machine - like motion was I naméd,
Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt

The machine alike - yet whettéd and dight are its edges...