You'll see him soon; he wanders hereabouts,
My sweet beloved. O Bosun to my arms
Come and revive old love in new esteem.

Melikes not travel midst a load of loam!

Though no contagion now can hurt our souls,
Since I have found the ointment, found the balm
I do agree – but 'tis the only way
To love a man.

                           Will one of you weak maids
Do up my shoe? Of late I cannot stoop,
For, fighting with a seaman (whom I beat),
The sacral vein was severed – see this scar

(to Usquebaugh) Twas he who beat my sweetheart – scurvy boor!

Then I'll to him. I'll serve a violent soul
With vital bites; instead of doing-up –

Or if you won't, some sailor will oblige
Who leans upon a bollard in the dock
Seducing all, though unseduced by man.

(interrupts) 'Tis he! My love!

                           Oh woe, poor Megalith!

I'll pity not, but rather sate my lust
On all these apples strewn abune the way:
See how their rotund aspect dominates
The scene – for you, sir, he may tie your shoe

What old romantic rubbish, old sirrah?
What wallop this, of cod's or other fish
What fruit?

                It is the fruit of fallen tears
That stain the rosy cheeks of weeping maids
And make supposing men to puff at th'eyes,
And shun the reckless pallour of the heart
That craves the goals of fortune temperate,
And sweats before the bleeding heart of love
Who bleeds there still

                           As I have cried tonight
Against the rising pallor of the moon,
Which threatens new upheaval in these trials
Of which the only rumour is report
Loud bruited round by one who, sick at heart
Has come here for an hour to lose his sighs
In drowning shrinkage of the misered head
Whose savage instincts linger 'neath the deck
Whereon the corded bales with humus rank
In vying –

                I must leave at once. Goodday!

For godsake, some wight tie my shoelace. Damn!
The heel of this my shoe is now so thin
That any needle lying in my way
Should outright pierce it. Nonetheless, I deem,
Three maidens, of the two that now remain,
Inasmuch as yet unrapèd they,
I shall remove to th'solace of my sloop,
That whoso doubts may see before their eyes
The staining of so yet a whitened scarf,
The sighted wharf is succour to my eyes,
And into time I aim unclothed to go!
But first, a thing or two I must prepare
A loincloth for the King in anagrams.
A poisoned garment – death shall pierce his lands.