I Will Make Thee Think Thy Swan

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

For This, Be Sure, Tonight Thou Shalt Have Cramps, Side-stitches That Shall Pen Thy Breath Up. Urchins Shall Forth At Vast Of Night That They May Work All Exercise On Thee. Thou Shalt Be Pinched As Thick As Honeycomb, Each Pinch More Stinging Than Bees That Made 'em.

Cease Thy Counsel, For Thy Words Fall Into My Ears As Priceless As Water Into A Seive.

Take Her Away; For She Hath Lived Too Long, To Fill The World With Vicious Qualities.

O Horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue Nor Heart Cannot Conceive Nor Name Thee!