Her ashes burn our eyes
Black lines on solemn faces
Concern'd we are by our necessary deed
Moved by the pathetic begging of the witch
So cruel our duty, yet so joyful in the lord!
For Alas! Ye poor sinners there's devils everywhere!
In shades they lurk and on meadows fair
They may obsess your neighbor, your friend, your lover
For the hearts of the weak are their favour'd lair
In evil eyes they dwell and in women fair
As the devil is a spirit and a prince of the ayre
He appeares in many shapes by joyning thickened myst together
And the devil is cunning
By drawing out of teats
He doth really enter the body as reall corporeall substantiall creature and forceth that creature to his desired ends
Useth the organs of that body to speake withall
To make his compact up
With his hideous agents
The heretic, the heathen, the witch
His genital is sore and scaly
And his semen cold as ice
Maybe she was stirred by our painful interrogation
For god's compassion she yell'd
And Io! How mercyful we were!
The burning flames of the stake
May slacken her torture in hell
"There is no peace," says the Lord, "for the wicked."
We'll have no peace 'til they are all purged
"There is no peace," says my God, "to the wicked."
We'll have no peace 'til they all burn
The wicked are like the troubled sea
Whose waters cast up mire and dirt
We'll have no peace 'til our country is cleansed
"There is no rest," says the Lord, "for the wicked."
We will not rest 'til ye are all purged