My dearest sweet, I long for thine hand's touch,
And are the days so distant hence and such
To not permit my hold upon thy form,
But I, with force will bring this curse reform.
I shall remind thee of the beauty kept
By thee inside; in talents all adept,
As is the cruelest sight of thine own eyne:
A cold degree beclothed by all the fine
Adornments such a woman may show,
And no such guilt shall beauty thine owe.
I came to thee with sacrifice to say
In words of gold delivr'd every day:
There is none stop in what I do pursue;
Thy blows art brisker than my heart’s a-due;
Thy blessed lips usurp the summer death;
They would indeed devour mine ev’ry breath.
And more said I about thy beauteous voice,
And how it dies when failest do thy choice:
I know that music lost her gentle sound
When thine own heart becomest not profound;
In every note, there’s beauty being cast;
There’s music plenty in her youth to last,
Her sound gives heaven’s angels covet,
Sometimes she esteems herself below it.
Need I say more of how I long for thee?
If were as so, the countless pages be.
I love thee so, and never shall depart,
Yours truly, I, the one that has thy heart.