Round rolls the stroke with mathematic care, All centre-bound, exactly circular: No sportive way it takes, at large and free, No gambol plays of freakful liberty […]

Why dreghis þou þis dole, & deris þi seluyn? / Lefe of þis Langore, as my lefe brother, / Þat puttes þe to payne and peires þi sight. Why endure this misery, and hurt yourself? / End this disease, my dear brother, / That pains you and impairs your sight.

And then, tenebrously, his mind whispered: Do it anyway. Put her down and swim for it. But he did not, could not. An awful guilt rose in him at the thought.

Jolene pulled off Kip's pants, exposing his quivering pink member to the lesbionic onlookers.