By Nirina Mignon
She utters herself a saint,
The lips artlessly mid-parted in sagesse
Of all-naming Adam in his poetic plaint,
This would-be Arachne, in clumsy address:
“O Musa, tam avare ubi derelinquens me
In copula cantatae, sine somniis.”
Yet with such conviction doth she lay,
Straining ecstasy, drawing heavens and feld amiss.
Those distal pearls in silver charger serve
Epicene verses for sweatless coursers
Cernui or vacillavi o’er Minerve.
More Ovid than collects touch’d those molars;
Her private fumigation chypre-spent, myrrh is rather faint;
But do see her manners, she is a saint!