Eve of the Faery Clock, Snippet of Canto I

Influenced by "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" and "The Rape of the Lock," my goal is to write this completely in iambic meter with (mostly?) rhyming couplets. (Though the intro's meter varies, the main parts will all be fourteeners). Entirety is a W.i.P. _ Presentiment La femme cependant, de sa bouche de fraise, En se tordant ainsi qu'un serpent sur la braise, Et pétrissant ses seins sur le fer de son busc, Laissait couler ces mots tout imprégnés de musc: Give a little whistle. As courtly shrewd and three-parts coy The Faeries’ wit so subtly ploys. No finer plaything they shall find Than scoured, smit, recessive minds. O see fools slyly murder—in lieu of all Loves lost— Temptation links the instrument undoing Present’s frost: Just palm-fit silver, ticking, posing Winter into Flowers, “Ifs” born on blight, such sinful whims, behest of pthalo hours. So slake the spirit-fire, till a tawdry light string shows, Till one last golden sunray unwraps days of ardent coal. Dear Reader, clasp tight now, always, to this poor, crimson hand, Our gloam descent, Despot Trulies, down to Hell (or Neverland). Canto I: D. Henry Allwein meets Blythe Delilah Salah Meriwether "I shall take my leave into the night, so far and yet so warm, And swiftly cause these breeches thus, vaingloriousness worn, To sway with chant, away with 'can’t'! The darkness licks its fur, Creating every qualm and crest of spittle taciturn." With Axe of Coup, a mighty hue, embedded in his heart, Our Allwein 'ere looked in the mirr, laughed ***** as though a clout, His eyes such as a soiled boon, a cracked and sickest earth, Allied itself with mouth and out was sharpest of the thirst. Et Cetera possessed his mind, a mountainous cruel hearse, Yet unlike all the other times, he sold the sordid curse, Quickened his stride down ancient stair, held untold grudges: Stars, Entered this craven guttersnipe into the local bar. "O how the mighty hath fallen!" sang Allwein, gazing ‘round, "Myself I shall add to thee thus: a fish so violet-drowned!" Though as he sat and sipped and whooped the folly of his years, A curious fair, just sitting there, not whisked—cavalier, Crossed her snares, legs clothed with fire, eyes depths above her peers, Saw one great chance to play the lyre; to coax the Flagoneer, With golden prospect: something of ol’ Time come back to hum That whispers to all men and femme, Them days repeat? ‘Tis done.