For I understand, now,
That it was not love:
It was merely my mistempered;
Beshrewed list,
For what is só scarce
In this marred world:

She,
Is oft misused and no one descrys thee engrossing forfullment she gives:
Like a mantle of a paramour,
On a flesh penetrating night...

Marry!
My heart feels tossed on the abstract,
For I was overturned with the conceit
Of being Your Thisbe...
Your Trojan princess...
Your right-hand-lady...

But Sir,
My heart, now
Desires but one thing:
To be announced as one's kindred
And be loved as a kingsman

I am content, in faith!
Let us lief love
With a love, greater than love,
And may we build with flint
On the foundation of vestal love.
Let us be one another's bier
When our bodies brine;
Ghostly anchor...
Pilot in the bailful pestilence;
Crotchet in woe;
Behoveful paramour to tell aught to
Without the conceit of neither being cast by
Nor discreet;
Aqua vitae dram in languish...

When thát day abroach
I shall anon be aught...
Do aught for thy...

When thát day abroach
I shall doff
All inadequasies...
And love you
Invariably!

The casus belli of the words harmony at the
Feet of Gamaliel's folly. A seraphic
Stratagem obeying certainties affirmation on
The tip-toe of expectation and the wind of
Discretion to tell of death in the ***, as well
As of, the better part of valour; the cold-hearted
Claret flame searing noxiously at the drubbing
Casuistical deleterious benedictory embranglement-
To see as far through a brickwall as anybody, espying
The beshrewed fragrance of spirits on the left, cloying
Incuriously at the beatific vision possessing knowledge
Of experience goring miscreant houses made of
Man and woman with inconsequential hands to the
Right which cut the baby in half upon the
Green silk of kings who know not the time of day
Nor the breath of God.









ELEETE J MUIR