Great rise my plumes to shame the sky,
of greater feather than those that fly,
jealous of their pinioned heights
that pilfer the sky’s painted sights.
Melpomene must resent me too
for alone I write greater sorrows
by my own pen and purview,
by harrow and hopes hollow.
But surely Hell envies me most,
and foolish perhaps is such a boast,
for hate and fury rakes my soul
with blacker blaze than of the whole
of Hell’s and Hades’ ferocity,
my mind with more monstrosity.