Oh ask me not of purpose, child

That damned elusive b****,

Paints her nails with dreams of men

Then embeds them in his ribs.

Did you not see her sultry sway

In vixen coats of rich and blessed?

Or watch better men turn lesser yet

To suckle at her breast?

Did you not hear her joyous laugh

At tolling bells of thought?

Sophists claimed to tame her once,

Though reason is for naught.

For lesser men find pleasure

Crawling bloodied at her side.

To suffer most is better love,

For self-destruction is their pride.

And better men will never love her.

For she wears too few masks to entertain;

A seasoned mind finds discontent,

With but one devotion’s pain.

No, ask me not my purpose here;

She will never waste my time.

Better still I find none at all
Then to call another’s mine.