Heredith the king of Zilba
In the sixth year of his reign,
Fell in lust with Roseline Amelia
The wife of the king of Spain.
And what a misery he did found
Since his eyes met with hers,
That it really had him bound
With chains behind unseen bars.
Many a time on his throne
Was he engaged in a dialogue
—With no one but himself alone
Speaking for a time so long.
All day he hoped in his gloom
That she’d someday be his,
Even if that meant the doom
To which he’d trade his peace.
“O, if she could just be mine”,
Was the line he always uttered;
“O, if she and I could always dine”,
Was another he also whispered.
But he couldn’t have his way
Any further than his obsessions,
So he concluded on a very day
To resort to confrontations.
“Summon me my war men!”,
He yelled in his tempered fury;
If only he could just discern
That he was to become a history.
And off he rode with them all
In a return battle for the woman
For whom he didn’t care to fall
To the sword of another man…
When alas he drew his sword
To slaughter Simon the king,
Amelia for whom he came abroad
Stabbed him with a broken ring.
And there where he laid to die,
He looked at her and smiled;
“But O my Roseline, why O why?”
And in tears he asked and died.