An apple arc’d toward Kleitos; whose great King

wroth & of wine did study where his sword,

sneaked away, might be …

with swollen lids staggered up and clung

dim to the cloth of gold. An un-Greek word

blister, to him guard,

and the trumpeter would not sound, fisted. Ha,

they hustle Clitus out; by another door,

loaded, crowds he back in

who now must, chopped, fall to the spear-ax ah

grabbed from an extra by the boy-god, sore

for weapons. For the sin:

little it is gross Henry has to say.

The King heaved. Pluckt out, the ax-end would

he jab in his sole throat.

As if an end. A baby, the guard may

squire him to his apartments. Weeping & blood

wound round his one friend.