If so, come, within my bosom sheath your dagger to the hilt!
Strike, till every erring mortal at your hands has met his fate,
Then sit down and calmly ponder on your awful lonely state!
You, perhaps, have been quite faultless; you, perhaps, no wrong have done,
If 'tis true, my peerless brother, you're alone beneath the sun"!
Do but think! we once were spotless as the babe on mother's knee!
Trace the causes of our downfall with a mind from malice free.
See, on every licensed corner, fiends incarnate hourly sell
Fiery waters of damnation, that create a living hell!
Women, once as pure as angels, leading heartless lives of shame;