Milton's Nightmare

The field
To labour calls us now with sweat imposed

Paradise Lost, XI, 171-2

Our brow's sweat
savors no bread.

License cherished
as Liberty goes
famished.

                                    Past pillars
                                        Cerberean throngs,
                                    surfeit with cake,

Lack spirit and
virtuous sinews
for the Letter.

They stoop
under the yoke.

                                     Water, truth's tears  
                                      embitter seas.

                                      Air, a trillion waves of

                                      Principalities.