I02 
THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
 
Pah !  but the brothel-reek contaminates.  
There is no air — thy bed is poisonous, 
Thy breath — thy leper-life lascivious — 
Fill me with loathing.  Murder-waking hates  
Surge in upon me as I see thee there  
Wanton and white in that red touzle of hair  
As if a sow were wreathed with poppy-flowers.  
Pah !  I am sick of these delirious hours.  
John’s lips are cool like olive-oil — and thine,  
Even at the best, like some black stormy wine. 
 
MAGDA 
 
Oh beast thou art !  Didst thou not surely quicken me 
With child ? 
 
ISSA 
 
Thy lewdness and thy lowness sicken me.  
Nay, let the heavy-fringed purple lashes  
Lie still — my lust is burnt to bitter ashes !  
The wrinkled eyepits black with grime and kohl  
Are like black bogs to suck away my soul.  
The coarse vermilion on thy cheeks is fire  
Of hell to blast the charred stump of desire.  
The blue tattoo-marks stain thy mouth like bruises ; 
The fat creeps on thy body as it chooses,