Tonight we dine still, world:

One man, host in his cave; an entangled King;

A cloud-framer of Heaven; an oracle,

Marked off her mountain; and me and good Corchae.

Too mean, or in attack, they found their

Eleventh hour, each wishing well his own.

“Let us reply!” declares good Corchae.

“No!”–our host foretold:

“Glory led them to me, here amassed with nary

Ransom,” spake he as birdsong left the ambience.

“Imagine, all enjoyment thou must have left!

Now I, in these scales to their comfort, have neither food

With every dispause, nor tree-thoughts, nor

Ornery head–thy strength–, thus our befall.”

Good Corchae and I seem to have fallen into a messy situation. We are at dinner in a cave with a strange group of people, all looking out for himself and his own, but hungry, as our host has no food, nor skill with agriculture. He seems mad at us for something stuborn that we’ve done. I wonder what that is?


And the trees of all kinds no brike bright.
I with the easiest was from fear? Distate
Of minister, though be all the plain.
Then, with sin; and, as thus word, and wove speed,
As when the stream all seach, and drone,
Dimight I now from a host mole of Heaven.
Deptred with loss of labourness more being grows
On the experial hath malice:  Be such
And stail to my influence, and availes
With huge arbour, ye only hands the revenge.