Sage thoughts tempered by that;
that which laugh'd;
court jester play thy fool, none but color'd cloth knowing depths of kingly scorn.
Thy wit shoulder'd many days of waking pain, doth thou think other,
to wit I ask?
Nay, foolish thought, full of lunar fancy befallen true frown.
Cometh soon, this tragic comedy, corn harvest'd, sycthe marking shadow,
turmoil jostle, taking turn the chain of days,
till November brings winter following wither'd day.
Will thou succeed, bringing down the house of cards?
Bring forth thy marked hand, strike down the beast,
layeth peace follow'd making perceived election as the jester continues his play,
vote then die with what will succeed.
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon