In vic’try, I, a grasping, vengeful wretch,
Berate my weak heart, crying: “Coward! Fool!
Of fate unworthy, yet death did not catch!
Thou’r’t given power—take it up and rule!”

For in my breast, a second heart doth beat,
Of nascent alabaster suf’ring, wrought
From bones my onetime conscience made its meat.
That grinder, inward turn’d, devours to naught.

What gain be this—a tattoo ’pon the still
Of soul’s night? Pray, of darkling powers, whom
Shall cut my birth-heart free, or angels kill
Th’unnatural anchor, pulling t’ward yon Moon?

In bodkin’s freedom dare I not believe;
O penance, pray, my newborn heart deceive.