Sit you down and make me free;
Conjure with your churlish spells,
Slaughter cattle, poison wells,
Do whatever must be done
That the devil’s cause be won;
Save the fury of my face
From his laughter, my disgrace;
Only, hag, good wicked witch,
When you have killed him with the stitch,
Ripped him rib by rib apart,
Have pity on his beating heart;
Teach him well but teach him short,
Make me happy in his thought,
And when he wakes all sweaty-limbed
Bathe his eyelids, mandrake-dimmed.
Dearly I love, O take your spells,
Practise them on someone else:
My mind is like a lightning-bolt,
And he an untrained, furious colt.
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© December 1979