Not to resent that black academy,
Mess-mating with dead men and living fiends,
And not to know no good could come of it?—
My better self—the good that in me grew
By nature, and by good instruction till’d,
Under your shadow turn’d to poisonous weed;
And ev’n the darker art you bribed me with,
To master, if by questionable ways,
The power I sigh’d for in my better days,
So little reaching to the promised height,