Şiir 42
Come, Hendecasyllabics, many as may
All hither, every one that of you be!
That fulsome harlot makes me laughing-stock
And she refuses at our prayer restore
Our stolen Note-books, an such slights ye bear.
5
Let us pursue her clamouring our demands.
Who’s she? ye question: yonder one ye sight
Mincingly pacing mime-like, perfect pest,
With jaws wide grinning like a Gallic pup.
Stand all round her dunning with demands,
10
Return (O rotten whore!) our noting books.
Our noting books (O rotten whore!) return!
No doit thou car’st? O Mire! O Stuff O’ stews!
Or if aught fouler filthier dirt there be.
Yet must we never think these words suffice.
15
But if naught else avail, at least a blush
Forth of that bitch-like brazen brow we’ll squeeze.
Cry all together in a higher key
Restore (O rotten whore!) our noting books,
Our noting books (O rotten whore!) restore!
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