Like liquid, Lust, in his arousal (cloth’d?),
As Easter-Cyclops roll’d away the stone.
To fly this time, or to out-cry, not loath’d
By Amoret, when, cutting short her moan,
Of Ovid mindful (similes from Rome),
She left Aemilia in that darkest cave,
And that old woman, for her fit captor grown.
Asymmetry: and Breaking of the Waves,
And sacrifice of Christ, and women’s selves, to save.
Of all these dastard deeds I have not read,
And all these graceless happenings are chance!
(Lest guilt, “complicity”, as Berger said
For her short shrifts and my Cupidious lance,
Or bro-ish Spenser I, at frat-boy’s dance,
To laugh now, or to judge, might yet you test,
To ascertain involvement, and your stance.
Or my narrator, say Histor-New-cists,
Too deep in culture’s crimes, of those times was impressed.)
Since twins abound like Shakespeare’s comedy,
And “face”-“faith” questions (Marlowe’s popular)
The love and strife and farce we might just see,
Were not the violence taken up so far,
And were we not so far from wedding bow’r.
Jealous Belphoebe evermore now rushed,
Since Timias bent over Am’ret dear,
As she herself had bent, but over Lust.
For like my rhymes, all was too casual to be just.
LMP