John Milton

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

Far from all resort of mirth, / Save the cricket on the hearth!

Far from all resort of mirth, / Save the cricket on the hearth!

Farewell, remorse: all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good.

Farewell, remorse: all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good.

Soon as the potion works, their human count'nance,
Th' express resemblance of the gods, is chang'd
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Soon as the potion works, their human count'nance,
Th' express resemblance of the gods, is chang'd
Into some bruitish form of wolf or bear,
Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goat,
All other parts remaining as they were;
And they, so perfect in their misery,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement.