Dis Temper

I plead my heart be still,
In poorly pondered wrath
To strike not, those upon this path,
Anger at a fool bodes ill.
They only see the bilious foam
Lathered and frothing on whitened lips
Or the ugly pout from which sullen acid drips.
The centaur calls the swampy Styx your home.
I do not want that my immortal soul
Be doomed to founder in the mire.
Let peace and quietude transpire
Soft tranquility my goal.
I endeavour to be not vengeful with my will,
And swallow, e'en though humility, be a bitter pill.