Sonnet 107

You play the victim well, my dear, it seems,
And draw your self up when words that are spoken
Impugn your fashioned femininity;
Who would believe him, were your silence broken?
Yes, if you were to complain of this and that
Or squeeze a tear and some sad story feign;
You’d play that mouse much like a sated cat
And for small leisure watch his essence wane.
Who would not think you pure, a simple wight,
Guised in the tassels, tears and smiles you wear;
Yet you would strangle infants with delight,
If not for but to serve your purpose here.
It’s all for fairness, this I’ve heard you sing;
But care you not that decent men may swing.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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