I would that all my foes would come with sword and mace,
and strive my life to end in combat on the field.
Then I could stand to look my attacker in the face,
against my wretched enemy my own sword could I wield.
Oh joy of joys and bliss divine to kill that wretched foe,
to leave the field of battle with his blood upon my sword.
But thoughts cannot be slain though they fill my soul with woe,
they come from every side attacking like an hoard.
Whence came you monsters, demon race, that do my soul afflict?
Stay your hands from this mission base and give my mind some rest.
No matter what I should conclude some one will then convict,
I wish I never learned to think, then would I be bless't.
For thoughts can be as precious as an ancient jewel,
and yet some times as fatal as losing at a duel.
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