So speak its name, the angel's due;
Shake a brow so tender mused at all,
How brought this ruin upon my fort,
Strong and stable, as all mottos go,
As all stone be mossed and turned,
Could never bring a stone unturned,
And that stone I am, as shalt exposed,
Each patter of rain and whiff of snow,
Ere swathe of heat, ere brux of cold,
So hence me here, as dessert's scorn!
Equip me with sharpest pins cactus tall,
I shall prick every man, wife and child,
Till no more shall wrest their thoughts,
Even when all others are past and gone,
This plant withers not, yet stands yea tall!
How now, angel, speak its name?
Shall shake ye a brow now splintered sharp?
Every hair and and every finest be drugged,
In each they prick my screams sound alarm,
Though in pleasure here, I am sobre man,
So speak sobr'ing words on whose account
That none approach but yea fair reproach,
As all lights depart, all the Moon at glare,
This single man walks, even larger departs;
And when none's so wild, this much am wild,
Who tears apart for none would see,
If beauty be scorn of past,
Let future be poison last.
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