In vain (to terminate thy woes)
Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose:
For on thy shoulders then I'll ride,
And make the Earth shake with my pride.
Think'st thou that I, who when I please
30Can kill by waxen images,
Can force the Moon down from her sphere,
And make departed ghosts appear,
And mix love-potions!—thinks thy vanity,
I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?