The Plague of the Child

This is thy eldest son's son. Infortunate in nothing but in thee. The canon of the law is laid on him, being but the second generation removed from thy sin conceiving womb. Badlum, I'm done. Call not me, slanderer. Thou and thine usurp the dominations, royalties, and rights of this oppressive boy. It hill besimps this presence to cry aim to this ill-tuned repetitious arms. Some trumpet summon Israel to the walls, these men of Angie Elves. Let us hear them speak whose title they admit. Our thirst, herjons. Who is it that hath mourned us to the walls? This