as a piece of tapestry, woven into a cloth
my life seems utterly dreary when I gird it on
my helmet, and yet see I what villany is this?
who would be you, who standeths so mighty on my head, who would be you to wish me dead. Who would be you to tread water upon thine head.
what tantrums are so vile, what tremors so cruel, as the expresive bengle incites its deceit like a jester’s bauble, born unto birth to bleed the scene with comic serene.