My sir's eyes compare not to the light moon;
Clouds are far more soft than his lip's surface;
If flesh be bloom, why then his like a prune's;
If hairs be chords, dust chords flee his dermis.
I have seen poppies sharp, pink and scarlet,
But no such colors see I in his gills;
And in some fragrances is there more sparkle
Than in the stench that from my sir is spilled.
I love to hear his voice, yet I know well
That any tune hath a far more sweet call;
I vouch I ne'er saw an Earthen god dwell;
My sir sways upon drinking alcohol.
Now my beloved, why are you maddened?
For I feel the same, you ought be gladdened.