In every heart of woman there must be
Some spoiled seed of treachery and greed
That with varying speed or patience manifests,
Spreads and strengthens like some devilish plague,
Contaminates their true and honest hearts
With gilded and embellished thoughts of sin,
For naught but pitted blood passed on from Eve,
Who from her husband's side did slide and sneak
To taste the fruit of that dark serpent's vows,
Could poison noble hearts 'gainst virtuous love.
So sudden was the taking of the Queen,
Whose holy love declined before my eyes,
To fall like Seraphim upon the moor,
And grace my uncle's undeserving heart.
Ophelia it took insidiously,
No sign of rot or choler I could see,
Yet indifference with love was one day swapped,
And lover's heart forever veiled from me.
Perhaps the rot does not reside in she,
Whose natural grace and charms all men entrance,
But rather in the blood of men like me,
Who, twisting all our soul upon her whim's consent,
Cannot retain with grasping fingers love,
Whose fickle composition flows like sand
Away from loyal lovers and is lost.
Who is to blame for passion's early death,
When she who leaves yet cannot bear to stay,
And he who stays with too weak efforts held?