Sonnet XVIII.

_TO DEATH._
_Morte, stipendio della colpa._
O Death, the wage of our first father's blame,
Daughter of envy and nonentity,
Serf of the serpent, and his harlotry,
Thou beast most arrogant and void of shame!
Thy last great conquest dost thou dare proclaim,
Crying that all things are subdued to thee,
Against the Almighty raised almightily?--
The proofs that prop thy pride of state are lame.
Not to serve thee, but to make thee serve Him,
He stoops to Hell. The choice of arms was thine;
Yet art thou scoffed at by the crucified!
He lives--thy loss. He dies--from every limb,
Mangled by thee, lightnings of godhead shine,
From which thy darkness hath not where to hide.