Bow down Mortals, I have dominion! For when my mighty gavel, Doth plunge down upon the sonorous surface of vengance, And thunders forth its unquestionable verdict, None shall be spared, Who have incurred my displeasure, Or disgraced themselves before my celestial judgement. Kings shall stumble beside paupers, Barons alongside whores, There is no end to my irascibility, Nor numerical limit to the count of my vexations, Even the very mountains will tremble in my presence, Whilst the ocean itself doth relent to do my bidding, And the vestal sisters of the cloth, Shall have their untouched innocence stricken from their loins. Temper hath no meaning, In proportion to my unfathomable violence, As neither hath fury, When reckoned against my hatred, And when these things, In their loathsome entirity, Are visited upon my foes, Then living man shall beg for Hell's kind sanctuary. Hear these words and know, That I am Ackroyd.