This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness

Unless An Age Too Late, Or Cold Climate, Or Years, Damp My Intended Wing.

And The More I See Pleasures About Me, So Much More I Feel Torment Within Me.

What Hath Night To Do With Sleep?

First Moloch, Horrid King, Besmirched In Blood, Of Human Sacrifice, And Parent's Tears, Though, For The Noise Of Drums And Timbrels Loud, Their Childrens' Cries Unheard, That Passed Through Fire, To His Grim Idol.

I Did But Prompt The Age To Quit Their Clogs By The Known Rules Of Ancient Liberty, When Straight A Barbarous Noise Environs Me Of Owls And Cuckoos, Asses, Apes And Dogs.