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Lovers! Check out these breasts, my
bow-shaped lips,
it's hard, I know, to concentrate, keep thoughts
pure. Now Hippolytus, a narrow-hipped
pansy, has tried. The squire's life he sought
turned into hunting with the hounds, ignoring
the hot call of the bed; ignoring me!
But I retool all human lust, sensing
each player's weakness: And here was Phaedre.
So things got out of hand: A whisper here,
a lover's philter there, step-mom and son
having their fun was the rumor. For fear
or pride, a noose caught Phaedre. Precision
in messy love can lead to misery:
the squire died on rocks beside the sea.
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