Borgia

OH, Love, why do you call to me to come To this your feast of barren, Dead-Sea fruit? Have I not eaten of your feasts before, Amid the sound of dulcimer and lute? Have I not heard your praises sung By voices that, alas, have long been mute?

Long since in gardens perfumed and bedecked, 'Mid light and laughter, royal and divine, The Borgias offered death in jeweled cups, To those who drank of their rare-vintaged wine. Ah, Love! last Borgia of a race accursed, I know each velvet trickery of thine.

In every song there lurks a threat of tears, In every flower there hides a sudden sting; And he who laughs his fill when Borgia smiles, Must pay the score in Borgia's reckoning. Full great the price for such a passing joy— The swan must die—that Love may hear him sing.

Ah, wily host, who opens lavish doors, And offers me my wish and full desire! I know full well the hand that becks me—strikes— I know thee, Borgia—thief and subtle liar! Yet will I sell my hard-won pallid peace For this last cup of poison and of fire!