House, house, house, it is not that my friend was wounded, But that you kept him from me while he had freedom, You and the girl whose heart is a snuffed white candle⁠— Now I will curse you both.

Comely house, high-courteous house of the gentle, You must win your war for my friend is mixed in your quarrel, But then you must fall, you must fall, for your walls divide us, Your worn stones keep us apart.

I am sick of the bland camellias in your old gardens, Your pride and passion are not my pride and my passion, I am strangling to death in your cables of honeysuckle, Your delicate lady-words.