I had a bath Slave. Sweet, good-tempered Fi,
With skin as Butter in the English heat.
Her touch as feathered down; ‘tis odd my heart
Did swell than times I would my husband meet.
The still warm waters of the gild goddess
Did often cleanse me of mine wrongful blush.
Dawn’s young light would find me as I wept,
And begged and prayed these songs of love might hush.
I scratched her name on lead. Up came the breath
To meet my plea and down it went, my sin.
Her blood would spill as water does,
Clear as diamond, lifeless, dull as tin.
‘Tis better for to hear Minerva speak
Than after fruitless love to desperate seek.