Up in the air he lifts me, casts me down;
I writhe in vain, with limbs convulsed, in the void.
Well, well! go idle words, babble your will;
I think the fit will leave me ere I die.
Fool, fool! where am I? O my God! Fool, fool!
Why did we do ’t? Eve, Eve! where are you? quick!
His tread is in the garden! hither it comes!
Hide us, O bushes! and ye thick trees, hide!
He comes, on, on. Alack, and all these leaves,
These petty, quivering and illusive blinds,