Janet Stands Her Ground Before the Queen

And had you known, you green and upstart girl,
Scarce blooded by the moon, no songs would praise
Your golden hair over your iron will,
Your gambit secondary to your grace,
You might have sought some swineherd's son instead
To root his brats in you like nesting dolls,
Some mortal pleased to warm your dreary bed
And watch your fetching clay flesh as it falls.
But you, my feckless gamesome lass, the wage
You've swindled from my sovereignty's no wealth:
My people have no love for things that age;
Your tithe's to time, my dear, and it's yourself.
So tell me, lady, will he cleave to you
When your shape shifts and settles out of true?

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