A physician to me is what thou art
yet all of this is unbeknown to thee,
and if to prove all true where should I start
in truth to pay such an exquisite fee.
For upon none I call to intercede
for succour to cure such a sweet sick state
for no physician's counsel do I heed
as Eros stands by and scoffs at mine fate.
O, but to be with thee for just one hour
would ease mine fever'd brow and calm mine mind
for being in thy presence thou hast such pow'r
but when apart a paradox to find ⎯
it seems mine fate perforce I must endure
finding in thee my sickness and my cure.

If I could only reach out from this page
and hold thee in mine arms like lovers should,
like those star-cross'd lovers from past-gone Age,
from Shakespeare's Verona, why then I would ⎯
I would, I would hold thee like Orpheus
on saving his one love in hell ensnared,
but, ay me! 'tis false hope and of no use
and all but just a dream a fool has dared.
But if thou would think of me when thou read
and gently touch this page as if 'twas me,
if thou would only do this simple deed
do this for then thy touch would set me free.
For better is thy touch however small
if just mine page than have no touch at all.

Beyond all things I ask that thou art true;
take all my love for thy love is thine own
for with no love no error will I rue,
no fault to seek nor grievance to atone.
Do what thou will for I do wish it so
for with my love thou hast a two-fold gain,
with mine and thine if thou wouldst suffer woe
then be not grieved for I will bear the pain.
Too sweet, too sweet are thou for this harsh world
and never was this world fit for thy state,
for where's the rose that keeps its beauty furl'd
and were it so 'twould be a counterfeit.
Be true to you as night doth follow day
or as the rose befitting as it may.

As to how I feel thou wilt never know
like winter days crownèd with golden sun,
like bold summer replete with summer snow
while autumn's trees lose of their foliage none.
Much better for thee to view such a thing
than perjure the priz'd innocence of thine,
for such is its worth angels would take wing
and gather round thee thinking thou divine.
But O, to be at sixes and sevens
not wishing for thee to know of mine plight,
mouthing mine sorrows to the cold heavens
bearing this burden of wrong that is right.
For better for thee to think what thou will
when for me bad is good while all good ill.

Fret not for Aphrodite is my muse
and with constancy guides mine thoughts and pen,
for thy beauty is hers for her to use
as she doth list, and she doth choose, and when;
and now is the hour that she speaks to me
but not an hour belonging to our time,
an eternal hour so the world can see
that she is true, as I to you, in rhyme.
And not for the world would I write thee wrong
for to my muse I am at her command,
so who will say I will not sing my song
with my true muse and you both near at hand?
So let this sonnet sing out to the world
on paper new or paper old and curl'd.

O thou did ask why should I write of thee
in words not from thy mouth but from thine eyes,
and in their way they ask'd dost thou see me
as thou hast writ as if to catechize
upon the very substance of thy form
and that true deceit doth itself deceive,
like Nature doth herself with springtime warm
and all responds as though 'twere summer's eve.
Yet all is true but yet all is not so
for each to each hath in itself a part,
for past-gone Winter lends April his snow,
to him her flow'rs presaging Spring to start.
So with these lines thou dost lend of thyself
so lies the truth deceit deceives itself.

Nicotine and black ink stain my fingers
confirming all I have done, do and will
in steadfast proof of spent Time that lingers
ever and anon upon new hours still,
and still this world hath nothing to compare
nor ever hath with someone such as thee
as Time doth prove the burden that I bear
thru' stainèd fingers of mine poetry,
for Time itself will vouchsafe mine labour
with honest judgement of fair-reckon'd Time,
while tongues that prate and cut like a sabre
shall be mute with thy beauty in mine rhyme —
vouchsafe me this, the sweetest sort of task
to prove thy worth is all that I do ask.