Iago: A rose with petals grey reveals its stem
Where blackest rot is fed by emerald soil
That I might sate its leaves of green-faced gem
And fuel that flame that might set hearts to boil
“Tis true, I love thee,”; the words sting my tongue
But string the Moor with coarse yet lethal edge
That he should wish his tempter dead and hung
Whilst stumbling to his chamber’s window ledge
Come bugle trill, a man gives way to beast
A soldier wrought by inner war with self
His fury shall be ripe for vengeful feast
To be displayed upon my mantle shelf
And now with bated breath I hold to find
Roderigo’s charge, felled by a sword unkind.