With thy such absolute words, And the ghosts of thine; Half shall abhor drawing mourns, The other must pall thorns of night. Her crimson ring is his sign, Coiling a break in the line. Thou yare as the chords play, Emboss the viands of vile! Quite young to ravin bones, And poison berries thine born. Clays of crimson up on boards, With her love broken quaint, The other raptures a quake, While envy consumes a soul to break! Oh what is thy truest love; Monsters, poisons gone honest above.