Eris Redux

Do not count the times my truant tongue spoke As though counting spring lambs high on the hill! Can a fire rage aflame with ash and oak And not yield it's embers to the dawn's chill? A sabre’s errant challenge to confront With parochial Envy at its root Now presented again, both dull and blunt That turns, by parried defense, to be moot. Again, with mirth, I engage thine outrage, Though tire from its false theme of affront As rote as the actor’s lines from his stage, No more to win than the fox in the hunt. Rest thy rage, it to mellow by the morn To soften thy brow, no longer forlorn.