Divest thyself of that slashing gown I had given thee, at the feet of the Temple.
The parrot I disrobed from Harsh Marquis is screeching a lull song for thee.
At dusk,under a gaping moon, flushing by the pond of bare Fany,
We shall penetrate our dark mystery,
Under the cloak, by Hecate and the griffon's prophecies,
I shall possess thee, brand thee with the salted pallid blood
that exuded from my lip.
Lick it, gulp it down, I command thee
For, to the eastern woods, on the verge of the crabbed passage tree,
Thy reason is hovering over the cage of Jove.
