Shall I hope on futile missiles?
On scorn forlorn-
With collar bells that doth propel me to my jail?
Perhaps today fate shall smile kindly,
Or mayhap bitingly-
With sticks of qualm,
That puncture harm-
And fall like poisoned arrows,
Such ‘tis my providence…
Daresay ‘gallant’ fellow,
And pray bay thy antiphon
-as ‘tis thy banal tirade-
And as iridescent as the sun
‘tis my perfidy
of a response…
For I forgive that which should not be;
And then lament over that which follows…
So 'tis love a fatal sagittas, and Amorum scorns facade,
This is the ruse which dupes us all.