Dimsdell. Get thee hence! I am a minister
Of God, a priest, and am anointed of the Lord
To teach His children.
Satan. And, therefore, am I come to thee, Sir priest.
I do confess a predilection for
Thy calling; conclaves, synods, convocations,
Are never held without my guiding presence;
They are my field days and my exercises,
While in the study and the cell I take
My cloistered ease. I love all priests and am
The bosom friend of many who would blush
To speak to me in public. Receive me, brother.
Dimsdell. Scorner, avaunt! Sink to the hell from whence
Thou cam'st! I do abhor thee, Satan; yea,
I tell thee to thy face that I who quail
Before the awful majesty of God,
And cowardly do hide my sin from man,
I tell thee, vile as I am, I do detest
Thy very name! I do defy thee!
Satan. These words are very brave; if more than wind,
Go to the market place tomorrow, there
Proclaim thy vice; or else ascend thy pulpit
And denounce thyself as what thou art, adulterer.
Dimsdell. Recreant to my God am I; think'st thou
That I will thee obey, to whom I owe
No deep allegiance?
Satan. Then bare thy sinful breast, for here I swear,
By that dread Name which mortals cannot hear,
I will upon thee print a mark, the stigma
Of thy secret crime.
Dimsdell. Hold off! I charge thee by that other Name
Of Him who rent thy kingdom, and will destroy it,
Touch me not yet!
Almighty Purity, Dread Essence Increate;
Behold concentrate, in this wicked form,
The universal spirit of iniquity.
Come quickly in thy majesty, O Lord!
Wither him here within the awful flame
Of Thy bright Holiness! Shrivel his frame
Into an atom, and blow the lifeless dust
Beyond the farthest star.
And, if in his destruction my soul should share
[top] Through close proximity, spare not!
Then will Thy servants serve Thee, Gracious Lord!
And mankind find its paradise!
Satan. That was well said!
Perhaps, Sir priest, you now will treat me to
A learned disquisition on the birth
Of evil? I'd like to hear it, if it tread
Beyond theology's well beaten path;
But, if it stumbles in the pug-mill round
Of teleology, you must excuse me.
Dimsdell. Base siege of scorn! I curse thee!