Desist your games, you dratted tricky sprite; Who over my poetic corpse would dance! This blinking presence reeks of wicked spite; Surcease your prance while you still have the chance. I see your eyes are fraught with great surprise, In truth, I hate the wicked words to come; For they are instruments of your demise. The time is now, I feel my tongue grow numb; Attend these words, my fay of endless hues; The day has come for me to say adieu, For you, my dear; whom I do call "my muse"; Rely on me, like I depend on you! And as this quarrel ends, my tears shall run; My muse is gone; a quest for words begun.