What wealth mayth find itself in pride fulfill’d
Where minds themselves canth see no purpose will’d?
The body wracks in soreness torn within;
The spirit dies from filth agrieved and black;
Love becomes hate and sours the heart in sin;
Conquered ith the mind in its cul-de-sac;
All of the being wanes ‘til all ith thin.
But angels sing psalms for the martyr’s pain
That cry for reasons to their suffering,
And beds of sheen-clean ivory are lain
With partners of passion made to so sing
In vocal odes for thee and all thy strain.
The pleasures of pain come forth to the patient
Of those who writhe as a virtuous facient.