I am jet-black, as you may see,
The son of pitch, and gloomy night;
Yet all that know me will agree,
I’m dead except I live in light.
My blood this day is very sweet,
Tomorrow of a bitter juice,
Like milk ’tis cried about the street,
And so applied to different use.
Most wondrous is my magic power;
For with one colour I can paint;
I’ll make the devil a saint this hour,
Next make a devil of a saint.