A feathered serpent in thy breast receive,
Shot from my golden bow; and, inly pained,
Thou vomit forth black froth of murdered men,
Belching the clotted slaughter by thy maw
Insatiate sucked. These halls suit not for thee;
But where beheading, eye-out-digging dooms,[n21]
Abortions, butcheries, barrenness abound,
Where mutilations, flayings, torturings,
Make wretches groan, on pointed stakes impaled,
There fix your seats; there hold the horrid feasts,