TO CAINA.
THE KERCHEF CARRIED OFF.
OF Hell and Heaven we Poets hold the keys,
Admitting or excluding whom we please.
Thou puzzlest me: I know not what to do,
Or which the safer gate to let thee thro’.
Here from the Angels thou wouldst pluck the wings,
There would the Devils wail their broken stings;
The Prince would abdicate his ancient throne
Defiled by thee, and leave the realm thy own;
Between thy roomy teeth the scorpion breed,
And revel on thy tongue the centipede.
Live, Caina, live! go, bear the mark of Cain,
But never raise thy branded brow again.