The girl I keep
this maid of ours
is fraught with pangs of fright
the darkened drink I pour for her
Is craven of Your Grace
It offers sight
to her blind eyes
that of violent death
of which none and no men dare
to meet with face to face
Because she tempts me with her youth
what I would offer up
the witnesses and priestesses
no conscience violate
The gods above and hells below
the wist of mobs with darkest past
and they that talk of right
all come forth to blame and scold
what brought her to this house:
a contract with Your Church
And as for drinking from that cup
she reach beyond the light
where nearer are
than even child
the witches of the night
And safer in that clovenwood
she is from books like Yours
which shed their light on acts not good
but never hides from this:
that life for her
beyond my hand
is only vain illusion
Then should she see for what it makes
through the glass so thick with spate
she’ll put You down and turn to me
to say she met with Fate
And though she solemn curse and swear
the girl will marry me
or else I’ll send her to her death
where time pass by
in tragedy