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vv. 183–202 And in your agony spue forth again

The black froth ye have sucked from tortured men!

This floor shall be no harbour to your feet.

Are there not realms where Law upon her seat

Smites living head from trunk? Where prisoners bleed

From gougèd eyes? Children with manhood's seed

Blasted are there; maimed foot and severed hand,

And stoning, and a moan through all the land

Of men impaled to die. There is the board

Whereat ye feast, and, feasting, are abhorred

Of heaven.—But all the shapes of you declare

Your souls within. Some reeking lion's lair

Were your fit dwelling, not this cloistered Hall

Of Mercy, which your foulness chokes withal.

Out, ye wild goats unherded! Out, ye drove

Accursed, that god nor devil dares to love!

Phoebus Apollo, in thy turn give heed!

I hold thee not a partner in this deed;

Thou hast wrought it all. The guilt is thine alone.

What sayst thou there?—One word, and then begone.

Thou spakest and this man his mother slew.