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?