Hail Gol-Goroth, hail Lord of Ruin dire!
We greet you with a great respect and awe.
But hark, we bear a vital message for
your great and august self. Our country dear,
fair York, its folk and King, hath sent us hence
and in their name, now hear ye this: depart!
Forthwith, go, quit this place anon, and cease
your magics fell and dark. Begone at once,
to whatsoever land or eldritch place
from whence you came’st, or else some isle remote
as you prefer – but go, and go at once.
To such a one as this thou speakest so?
Oh fairly done, my wise and learned friend;
for surely that demand shall bear thee fruit.
No man durst speak in such a way, for men
must all fear eldritch fate. And so this one
must not be man at all. Ambassador
of York! Speak quick and true: Art thou a god?
Deception’s ne’er my power been: so, nay.
Then thou art mortal, naught but man. So face
the fate that mortals ever must: now, die!
The Welshmen are struck by many lightnings, and cling unto the temple edge, weathering.
I’faith I fear we’ll ne’er see home again –
but if we do then Rhys, dear Rhys, attend:
Belay thy gentle, honest ways – if e’er
one asketh if thou art a god, then for
our very souls, thy answer must be yea!