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"Filthy harlots - the Lord`s grape!

With lore ornamented entreating;

Hollow-hearted, heart-departed -

Yet thou reapest the blooming rose -

When `tis the weed which is to be swath`d"



"And me in the yesterday bind?!"



"Hah! - for thee even a hound holdeth the throne.

Unwanted child of mother! - Plague of plagues!

Father of leprous children.

I wield ye to stint this brawl!

Night is the ford - yet harken! - do not thwart!

Desirest thou to do it withal,

I shall cause thy body by one head too short!

Sayest ye nay to my boon,

Then wilt thou from bloodsheld swoon!"



"Err me not! - Must ye bethink my foolhardiness!

Be vanished! - Be hanished! -

If ye deemest me not wroth.

My hand hieth to unsheathe the sword

Lest thou dost totter -

Whid along! - Wherefore irk my haughtiness?"



"No man... No man at all!

Be it lord of beggar

Bereaveth my dignity!"



"Loom my darling sun -

Bear the scarlet colour!"



"Wherefore bereave

The kine of the sward?

Wherefore holdest thou for

Me such a quailing scowl?"



"I do, in the blooming flower, pleasure find!"



"Innocence is reserved for the meek:

Of naught is my grasp ne`er to be!"

"Filthy harlots - the Lord`s grape!

With lore ornamented entreating;

Hollow-hearted, heart-departed -

Yet thou reapest the blooming rose -

When `tis the weed which is to be swath`d"



"And me in the yesterday bind?!"



"Hah! - for thee even a hound holdeth the throne.

Unwanted child of mother! - Plague of plagues!

Father of leprous children.

I wield ye to stint this brawl!

Night is the ford - yet harken! - do not thwart!

Desirest thou to do it withal,

I shall cause thy body by one head too short!

Sayest ye nay to my boon,

Then wilt thou from bloodsheld swoon!"



"Err me not! - Must ye bethink my foolhardiness!

Be vanished! - Be hanished! -

If ye deemest me not wroth.

My hand hieth to unsheathe the sword

Lest thou dost totter -

Whid along! - Wherefore irk my haughtiness?"



"No man... No man at all!

Be it lord of beggar

Bereaveth my dignity!"



"Loom my darling sun -

Bear the scarlet colour!"



"Wherefore bereave

The kine of the sward?

Wherefore holdest thou for

Me such a quailing scowl?"



"I do, in the blooming flower, pleasure find!"



"Innocence is reserved for the meek:

Of naught is my grasp ne`er to be!"

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