When by thy scouring, O mush, I am dead,
And that thou think'st thee free,
From all soliloquy from me,
Then shall my giddiness come to thy bedlam,
And thee, feigned vet, in worse armfuls shall see;
Then thy sick tappet will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call'st for more,
And in false sleeping quarters will from thee shrink,
And then poor aspidistra wristband, neglected thou
Bathed in a cold sweet-and-sour wilt lie
A verier giddiness than I;
What will I say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my lowness is spent,
I had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threshings rest still innocent.
© Paul Taylor 1992
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