Something vaguely Bard-like, in honor of spring

Cometh I bearing cocke and cumme…

Avail me not of it, Ignacio. ‘Tis no more the flowers of that bud in want of it, now that good Cecila is off to nunnery.

Cecilia’s memory burns but the fire is containeth and the ladle fit for any hand…

So call you then for her sister, Beatrice?

Indeed, as she buddeth on the spring, tis evident…

Ah but the bulls all laden in finery puff and huff the dust on their heels thus in the heat of the season. Thou ist not lonely in the pursuit, though lone of solitary bursting heart, tis the way of the chase … bullish sputum all round sows seeds of the land.

Aye, seems the path to Beatrice is laden full of’t.

Containeth not that which burns hotly as thy passion, goodly Ignacio.

Aye, for certain, dip’t of’t it must be soon or tis what you say is true, and mine heart and balles be fit of bursting.

I fear thy must contain’t sirrah, for Beatrice returneth not til on the morrow, and barring that may not be seen but for a full fortnight. She does not rise and fall like the sun; she is liketh more the hurricano in her manner. Thus, harken on the morrow and thereafter if need be. And keepeth thy temper even and true, and engageth not in duels with raging bulls of same-said fire.

I will, wise John. Till that breeze bloweth, I shall be but a sheet to’t.

As it must be, goodly Christian.


(c. 2009, E)

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