It's there, resounding thru my rattled head
The brazen screech of so turmoil'd a swain,
"If music fails to right the lover's pain,
Then what surfeits the appetite instead?"
It's God's good grace that we like Christ do tread
And know the joy, the crown of Passion's Gain.
I deign to ask to spare the thorny mane
Or peircéd hard with spears of molten lead!
Shall I upon the goal, proceed to feed,
thus relish words and passion of embrace,
for only to retain the monster's place?
Or rather starve the creature, stave its greed?
No answer's fine to satisfy the case
My ego thus must sleep, my will to cede!