Dame Solitude’s a proper wife,
Severe in high-necked modesty,
Yet knows how to infuse grace into life,
Nor swiftly sheds her veils of mystery,
Not even for her wedded husband.

Her little sister Melancholy,
A ravening slut, shameless as any whore,
She drives her lovers past the point of folly,
Making but one demand; and that demand is: more.
Sucks life from lips and loins and soul
Into her naked emptiness, as if to make one whole.
And mostly wants her sister’s man,
Not because he is so good, or better than,
But because he is her sister’s.

Dame Solitude, if you and I must wed,
I’m wise enough to know your charms.
I take you to my marriage bed –
Pray keep me from your sister’s arms.