SAMSON
You need not pity Samson,
He was one
To like his honey ripped from lions' bellies—
Sweetness was stale that did not smell of death.
Unless a woman were made dangerous
With latent treachery, silkier than her hair,
She was not worth his boisterous attention.
He liked to pile the odds against himself
And then at the last moment turn the tables
Roaring his sinister jests above his victims.
He understood the path Delilah followed,
Played with himself and her, experimental
As always at the lip of a volcano.
Well, he was singed, and felt the smart awhile,
But had a death completely to his taste:
Jeers turned to screams had always been his music,
Festivals clinched with blood tickled his humour—
You need not pity Samson,
He was one
To like his honey ripped from lions' bellies.
THE PRINCESS
Let us make alliance with the king of France.
He has a thousand warriors
In complete armour,
Some with swords and some with bows,
And twenty horses to ride upon himself.
Let us make alliance with the king of France.
He has a palace with four towers
And a staircase
With a hundred steps of square-cut stone
Up which four men may easily pass abreast.
Let us make alliance with the king of France.
