A florid countenance oft anger wears,
Infused with wrath, engorged with heated blood,
Dire oaths the mouth by hate enkindled swears;
From the enraged heart doth venom flood.
Alike the poison of the frigid fire
Of rancor chill, with icy veins and thin,
Pale lips more like to bite than burn. Such ire
Can slay the soul. The soul that savors sin,
That feeds upon the bitter spleen, and gall
Doth have for drink grows dry and bent and knows
No nourishment. Such soul is devil's thrall
Long ere among the coals of Hell it glows!
Wrath is no wholesome dish, be cold or hot;
Far better Mercy, and the wrong forgot.
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