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For our parchèd mouths to drain,

Till my righteous heart be fed

With thy blood and thy bitter pain;

Till I waste thee like the dead,

And cast thee among the slain,

Till her wrong be comforted

And her wound no longer stain.

The Law thou then shalt see;

That whoso of men hath trod

In sin against these three,

Parent or Guest or God,

That sin is unforgot,

And the payment faileth not.

There liveth, for every man,

Below, in the realm of Night,

A judge who straighteneth

The crooked; his name is Death.

All life his eye doth scan

And recordeth right.

I have known much evil, and have learnt therein

What divers roads man goes to purge his sin,

And when to speak and when be dumb; and eke

In this thing a wise master bids me speak.

The blood upon this hand is fallen asleep

And fades. And though a sin be ne'er so deep

'Twill age with the aging years. When this of mine

Was fresh, on Phoebus' hearth with blood of swine

'Twas washed and blurred. 'Twere a long tale since then,

To tell how I have spoke with many men