Shall Schiller 'scape Putresco's dire intent?
Shall Putresc hide his wrath whenas the sun
Shall swamp this sailor's moon for once and all?
Shall Polo gain good Carybd's wealth? I fear
That clam'rous strife shall bald his scurfy pate
And strip his last remaining strength away
From aught he loves.

                           His plans do wax apace
And, if no speedy action cuts them short,
In finding what was found out there before
I'll have no master soon.

                           As have I now
A madder one than once; his fetish grows –
He climbs a tree and eats the branches – soon
He'll burst!

                Shuns he Putresc?

                                      Aye, iwis!
But also him Putresco, no?

                                      Indeed
For jealousy! That handkerchief he owns,
That spotted, bluish, odious piece of cloth
Was once a garment, better talked of low
For fear the master-tailor be enraged
At what has happened since.

                                      No chance of that.
I'll optimize and notify no aspect,
For in my pocket rankles such a weed
As may, betimes, be burnt, or, failing, shunned
In null-perception of the mystery
Of underclothes and blankets in the dark.

Waste no more loam on transport's voleful toys!
I'll show you now a key, at great expense,
With whose protection Schiller, when imbued,
Shall scale the heights of wisdom, scaling too
Th'abandoned tower, which now contains (unknown
To all but me and Polo) the kingdom's heir,
On whom shall oft-times fall th'admiring glance
Of all – unless the eastern rebels' cause
Kindles again yet further bloody wars.

But what if aught of regal ill-intent
Should scan our premises and find the lack
For which, in time, our tears shall cease to flow?

Then none but we shall serve the country's cause
In crying in the arms of one sweet maid.

Aye, that's a solemn task, and worthy still
Of me and of confederates abroad,
Who now alas have me and Schiller, weakly
Thus conniving 'gainst all manner of men,
Abandon'd to the storm of market's lieu
A greater kernel, smacking of remorse,
The spheres of heaven ungratefully to lead
The sceptred last. The cobbler seeks no aim,
And all in all I find none in the game.

This lad's a sight unseemly to behold,
And sadder than of yore, as if he held
The leaden tree of apple-time, bereft
Of perfume on his fingertips, at last
Unsoiled by pristine sediment'ry loam.

What talk of loam? Are you the cargo-dog?

Sir, before I do reply to this,

You guard this cargo? Do you serve the King
Or what brave warrior? Shall you take this bun
In token of my goodness?

                           I shall cry.

I shall beat you 'pon the pate, if weep'st
Or groan'st.

                My love has up away and gone!
She shuns me now; I'll get her back anon.

Thou would'st escape my question, feeble knave?

No whit!

                Then tell me, where's the way to Mars?

If war is what you want, no doubt the King
Will give a new commandment. No-one cares.