The wall: it cometh down on Ischariot!

(Her Minstrel:)
The fire doth belong to a pregnant soul:
The soul of your humble minstrel:

What if sparks wrest from my soul:
It’s your anvil; it’s mine breeze
Running cold, as cold as coal
And the cinder riseth, if you please!

Phoebus: shall you spare mine eyes?
Spare them lest my burning soul yearns;
Will my last groan be the prize
For its sores, its frights, its burns?

Burn! Soul: burn!
It’s burning my soul
My soul’s on fire
Turn to my soul
Time’s on fire!

(His Mistress:)
Tinder is the nature of soul
Who, by blaze, is blacksmith? Iron?
Can only will and virtue be toll
To appease this flaming tyrant?

Alas! Now that Judas turneth
It licketh, it flareth - and it burneth...
Burn! Soul: burn!
It’s burning my soul...

The wall: it cometh down on Ischariot!
On Ischariot and his burning blood!
It’s burning my soul....