Help him not then, and push your safety away:
I for my part will be his backward eye,
His hands when they are shut. Ah! Abinoah!
Like a bad smell from the soul of Moses dipt
In the mire of lust he hangs round him;
And if his slit-like eyes could tear right out
The pleasure Moses on his daughter had,
She’d be as virgin as ere she came nestling
Into that fierce unmanageable blood,
Flying from her loathed father. O, that slave
Has hammered from the anvil of her beauty
A steel to break his manacles: hard for us
Moses has made him overseer. O, his slits
Pry—pry.... For what?... To sell to Imra....
[ABINOAH _is seen approaching_.]
Sh! The thin-lipped abomination!
Zig-zagging haschish tours in a fine style:
It were delightful labour making bricks,
Knowing they would kiss friendly with his head.