Wish, not I, to dedicate a sonnet

To surreptitious love, brutish sorrow,To beauty and allure wrapped in bonnetOr the woebegone hopes of the 'morrow. See, not I, hope of evanescent love When we hold the universe in our soulsAnd stand higher than the heavens aboveWhile we-us-as ourselves make us a whole Say, not I, that fidelity hindersThe ripple from scintilla to the flameYet, does not ignite the burning cindersWhen strength is forsaken for cupid's name. Fear, not I, of devotion altering A strength, of which, is never faltering.