O wretched creature, so stagnant in muse;
Why dost thou stare at an empty hand?
What purpose lies in lapping up the waters of discontent?
O what rallies thy soul to stir in echo,
To smite thy passive facade demeanor?
O how thy forefathers must blasphemize thy mother’s name!
Thy soul doth compare to a rancid pear,
Soft and viscous, swirling in thy own misery;
Tis’ not passion, but hate that drive thee, and hate that keep thee alive!
Twill not be the heavens, nor the gods,
Nor thy own shame of spirit, but thy
Own misery that will be thy end! Thy heart cries a melancholy call,
That naught shall answer but thine own!
Lit is the candle of submissiveness,
Its aurora darker and danker than Tartarus, in all its vile blasphemies!
Dim is the ray in which thy thoughts march;
Thy wits art wretched from their posts,
Their zeal shattered into a host of shards. And you, this barbarous ogre,
Aim to piece together the remnants of thy mind!
O little, bastardly knave, what is thy purpose?
Dawdle not! For I grow impatient! Ask thyself; what is thy passion?