There is this peacock of splendour such, Nor sporting what mayst you think he gains, But what colours! O the feathers inviting, How lush and such a spread at light's envy! Where such ocelli give Cupid's dart an art Looped round Zarathustra was one fight At whose loss came null-sum in cool light, A depth of moon and craters sporting eyes, So red were such cheeks as hearth exposed And pruned his eyes as all others befell, Whence such rank of greater sheen denied, Also proofed a fervent eye as all else stood Then we saw how feathers drooped in grey Where all in clothed fabric stood before ye, Sapped in sight, nor could hearing fool, Where such feet could walk and feel a stage Then breathe the air of loot and more, Who donned himself in flare and glory, If it be muses to tender his self, let it come, And such are the stoic sounds sought when You accosted us with your daring steps, How they dressed the former with your eyes, As all meager eyes stare, then you command. Throughout our kingdoms on Earth we recall A great tide of flare and bout for breeding, And such colours and rank esteemed be hot, So it shall be the colours except horns denied, Not that we see those coloured, yet the self; If not your self, then we consider you boring! So have at it: greatest you drag yourself here, Look round and observe what colours sporting, A fabric doting, the floor testifying your glamour, There is no other man more colourful, nor daring, As each peacock plucks each feather on thine behest, Give wreathes of love from wealth at rest.