O what is this illness
This all powering disease
A filthy omnipresent slime
Which aches the heart in time
To it’s own beats with false images
And haunts, with her likeness
And faints at angels and all.

O sweet carnal pulchritude
Depicted as if from on high
When from the wells did thoust come.
On top once done-
It seems the heavenly that die,
From the spewing of the lewd,
Bitch, feigning to be on high.

How has she succeeded;
In casting these, o, so powerful,
Illusions which bind those angels,
These virgins, in malignant gel?
Their sharp senses, now dull,
From the revealance of beauty unveiled
And heavenly bliss unlocked, but unintended,

For these sweet, now sour,
Angels, unknowingst of any
Malignance or beauty so great
Let alone combined, of late,
In this wench, worth but a penny,
This virgin now, will devour
This eternal, heavenly bliss.

Now the once virgin, now black
Must prove himself worthy
In this, the greatest, test
Of himself and his oaths, lest,
He truly fall from his lofty,
Yet tangible, perch, by the knack
Of the lusty feelings of this young wench.

Does either know better?
But of course, both,
In their haste for more,
Have forgotten, their ingrained Lore,
And perhaps even an elder oath,
Not forgotten, but twisting it’s letter,
Make then, now, and then, then forgotten.

This is all the malignance,
All in the world, transported
Into one burst of feeling.
A feeling complete, and all ensuing
Once finished leaves a dyed,
Soul, once white, black with repugnance
This wondrous feeling we call Love.