Haste Thee, Harsh Verse, as Fast as Thy Lame Measure
Haste thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure
Will give thee leave, to him—my pain and pleasure.
I’ve given thee, and yet thou art too weak,
Feet, and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.
Tell him all questions, which men have defended,
Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;
And ’tis decreed, our hell is but privation
Of him, at least in this earth’s habitation.
And ’tis where I am, where in every street
Infections follow, overtake, and meet.
Live I or die, by you my love is sent;
And you’re my pawns, or else my testament.