I convince and convict thee of sin!" answers straight
The Saint, wringing on, wringing ever—oh, rare!—
Blood—blood from a napery snow not more clean.
"A miracle shows thee thy state!
"See—blood thy extortions have wrung from the flesh
Of thy clients who, sheep-like, arrived to be shorn,
And left thee—or fleeced to the quick or so flayed
That, behold, their blood gurgles and grumbles afresh
To accuse thee! Ay, down on thy knees, get up sworn
To restore! Restitution once made,