A queenly scepter doth she wield,
When e'er her lips in curving yield,
To search, to find, to fate resigned,
As starving wolves will hunt the hind.

Beneath the night, beside the tide,
Eastward! Toward where Heathens bide,
Where churchmen please to take their ease,
And finding one named Pericles.

If richly dressed, then poorly scarred,
Behold Her Captain of the Guard,
And what, by fate, that helm adorned,
The orchid! His to steal, as sworn.

The striped gem, the floral trim,
Chagrined, his chanced success was slim,
And slipping from the blackest wind,
He paid in blood what love would spend.

The Shield of Justice, swinging low,
He leaps, but half-absorbs the blow,
But by that crest, careening past,
His fingers find the flow'r at last.

But in his joy he nigh forgot,
The power lying prone hath not.
And rolling, he belated tried,
To slip the sword that struck his side.

His final thoughts of disbelief,
Could e'er she love so poor a thief?
And pressing feet against the street,
He, wincing, stood and faced defeat.

Then with a speed he ne'er had seen,
His cheekbones blessed, his baalzadeen,
With sharper wits than he'd confess,
Sought refuge, him to convalesce.

Now lying languidly reposed,
So near embraced by dying throes,
This bloodied man, as thee hath read,
Prays that she might love rhymes instead.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Aeguary, in the year 533 AF.