In which, months after their first encounter, we join our young lovers while they discuss a serious matter in the unproductive way that couples excel at.

***

Our lovers had their spring, clandestine held
Each in embraces where their souls could meld;
A secret season theirs to be enjoyed
Alone, where no pretence need be employed.
The umbrage of their class disparity
Did little to disturb the clarity
Affection wrought between these equal hearts
Which months had fused from two untethered parts;
A grander whole that sung the angel’s song
(Sometimes a chant too sweet to be too long)
Until at last their secret life did grate
Upon the maiden fearing for her fate
For if discovered nunneries await.
“My love,” she said, “This season has been blessed
With joyous hours none could but attest
Were smiled upon by heaven, but the wind
Speaking in prophets tongues would soon rescind
This luck we take in stride and think unbound;
For soon our sin’s appointment will be found
And enemies, some base and others crowned,
Will act against this union we declared
To God alone with sacral sight impaired.
And when our many enemies will spy
Our love, in faces blushed, their bones will cry
‘Abomination!’ ending our disgrace
And sending me to take the vow of grace.
Think then if any other tact we choose
To proof our love against the schemer’s ruse.”
“My dear,” he said, “Your fears are most astute,
And shame me as a callow-headed brute
For nothing have I thought beyond our bliss
Enraptured as we are in ev’ry kiss.
Absorbed within your crystal gaze I swoon
As though enslaved within the siren’s tune.
And melodies that from your lips depart
Do more than any labour’s strain to start
The beating of this coarse but worthy heart...”
Then, cutting in, said she whom he adored:
“My prince! I know you love with full accord
So need you not to prove it anymore,
But focus on this most unpleasant chore
To find a path to bring from dark to light
Our love, so we may meet beyond the night!”
This sudden imposition on our prince,
Who was not built to toil, made to wince,
For when the flighty nature of his fling
Was grounded by commitment’s dreary sting
He felt love’s magic start to dissipate
As luxury had left him inchoate
In matters of commitment to a task
When fantasies of ease he’d rather bask.
Don’t hate him yet, dear reader, for it passed
(A flicker soon as come as left as fast)
As honour trailing shame this message sent:
To learn to love beyond his own content
And grow a man from youthful miscreant.
Thus boldly did he oath upon his life:
“I’ll marry thee! I’ll take thee for my wife!”
Although this prospect filled her with delight,
And joyously they danced by candlelight,
A niggle came to sunder ecstasy
And force the maid to drop her fit of glee.
“What issues, love, that bodes so ill a face?”
Our prince said, bringing tender his embrace.
“Your father won’t accept a one like me
To wed his only son and heir,” said she.
“’Tis true!” cried he, “I am a fool to say
What cannot be enacted in this way!
But what if we could do as rusers do
And sell an act of mummery in lieu
Of straighter paths denied us by the world.
I’ll have your auburn hair blonde-dyed and curled.
Surrender your chemise for such a gown
To complement your name of wide renown;
The countess, this or that, of German stock,
From Cleves, Bavaria or Saxon block,
Or closer principalities of France
May better serve to influence our chance -
No matter, any may suffice, if words
Are limited for many cunning lords
(My father not among them) will be wise
To accents rough unless we minimise
Your naturally untamed verbosity...”
And here, again, by cutting in, said she:
“I do not speak as much as you make out!”
“Forgive me, love,” Said he, “I play the lout
And carry on with tongued hypocrisy;
You speak no more than normal, yet to me
You have been known to endlessly relate
The gossip on the kitchen hands you hate,
Or worship foods in panegyrics long
Like: ‘Oh! The crust was oh-so crisp along
The edges of that boysenberry pie!
You’d die to taste it! Oh you’d die! You'd die!
And, Oh, the filling: sweet as heaven’s nectar
With lemon playing palate’s sour protector,
And Cinnamon to bring to pungent life
That taste for which you’d suffer any strife!’”
Our prince here paused as dark he saw her mood
And wisely chose to not pursue more food
(Gooducken, though, he'd next have made appear
And sad we are to not include it here)
But, luckily, this maiden was no shrew
And quickly laughed as playful slap she threw.
“You, prince, are more a fool than royalty
And all the more it seals my love for thee.
But tell me, where may we find clothes that fit
The grandeur of a countess, for to knit
Or weave is neither of our skills, thus how
Do you propose in this to keep your vow?”
“I have a friend, a painter, who designs
The patterns for attire, jewels and signs,
And knows a tailor who may cut for us
This gown, in secret, not to make a fuss.”
Just then, the hay below was heard to rustle,
(For in a stable’s loft they met to tussle)
And soon the interloper made to climb
The ladder to the station of their crime.
Thus both the prince and maid were forced to throw
Themselves from window high to bush below,
Grazing themselves on ivy, yet still light
And laughing as they ran into the night.