 | Original Poems |  |
77
The Execration.
I.
Down quick, to Hell's dark Shades below,Damn'd to never-ending Woe,
May He, the guilty Mortal go,
Who with his Lies and Oaths deludes the Fair,
Then false, and changing as the Air,
Leaves Her to vain Remorse, and black Despair.
II.
May there, before his starting Eyes,Hell's most hideous Forms arise,
And hollow in his Ears his Perjuries.
For ever may the Furies lash his Soul,
And He with racking Anguish howl,
Whilst Tortures always changing round him roll.
78
Each impious Wretch, whose brutish Mind
Proves to complying Beauty faithless or unkind.
| Original Poems | |