112
And all the souls, that damned be,
Leapt up at once in anarchy,
Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee.
They no longer heeded me;
But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters
Unwillingly re-echo laughters!
No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell:
'Twill make an holiday in Hell!
Famine.
In a dark hint, soft and slow.
Slaughter.
And who sent you?
Both.
Slaughter.
And I have drank the blood since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men.