Soliloquy

Good friend, and knows she what her heart doth seek?
For time and trial will all attest, that all
Done naught but for its sake will naught but dregs
Of bitterness impart. And mark it well:
'Tis true for bitter hearts that cup is sweet,
But for the summer's youth 'tis poison'd draught
Which cannot in its life deliver breath, but steal away
That heated breath of maids, and leave them none
Save widow's ice to fill their hollow breasts.
To cast off what she were, and seek instead
A mask : oh ho! now that is folly sure!
So tightly has she set the thing upon
Her face that 'fore a fortnight has been pass'd,
A common friend should pass her by
All unaware of who it is beneath.
The dev'lish front will quickly turn what dwelt
As gentle smiles and nods to gruesome frowns.
Yes, 'til at last her dearest kin, the flesh
from painted mask, will, by no chance, divine.
Why want you that the ends be change? 'Twould best
Be that the means be so, to some new good,
Else I am learnéd not, in thoughts or deeds.
Here, thinking for a change, now that is great,
I'll there concede; but doing for a change -
And naught but for a change - now that is false.
If sport be sport, and prize be sport, who then
should want to play? Or play, indeed, they should,
But hopelessly. And one who calls his change
Both means and ends, has traded pay for work.
At none and two, and ten and two, has she
Been given golden chains to wrap about
Her throat; yet calls she these by what they are?
Oh nay! She calls the pretty things as cords
That bind and cut her skin in malice cold.
Instead, in search of new and fresh, she takes,
For gems, dead iron cuffs, and cries that though
They seem to bear less worth by rite, that they
Are new must give some value to their weight.
Stand I by what I spoke before: that wise
Is one who takes his prize as prize, and names
It by its name, and adds his wealth to that
Which hath he so already earn'd in faith.
An heed this not, nor live by 't shall you find,
A swift right death to heart and might and mind.


Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, no?

Sir Bard, I love thee.

P.S. Iambic Pentameter is fun.