Fit for the Priest’s or the Pope’s own back;

Flowers costly, waxen, gay,

And the mates from the ditch-edge, pair after pair;

Dirging band, and the Priest to pray,

And the soul of the dead one pleasuring there.

Body starved, and the mind as well.

Peace—let him rot in his costly glory,

Cheated no more with a Heaven or Hell—

Exit Salvatore.