Spare Me Not The Sounds of Your Ongoing Pain, Cruel World
The Only Hope One Has For Strength Is Voicing
Thy Human Frailty’s Lividity
Go Not Rigid, Go Mad (More Lithe, And
Loose Toothed With Kiss Hungry Bleeding Gums)
What, canst thou say all this, and never blush?
Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.
Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?
Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day–and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse,–
Wherein I did not some notorious ill,
As kill a man, or else devise his death,
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it,
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself,
Set deadly enmity between two friends,
Make poor men’s cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends’ doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
‘Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.’
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.