Inspiration hath spoken to me, in my loner nights dreamless nights of woe,
"thou shalt write this, take it as thine next poem, the next about her in row!
Thou shalt take it easy, her sublime beauty, thy cause of awe".
Make it thus as a masterpiece of beauty, a reflection of her countenance for which my wicked desires bow.

Her eyes begged me, her lips thrived me, that smile made it all come slow,
To a pen and a piece of paper here I am to share and show,
How deemed my soul is with affection and inspiration she overthrew,
Whelming my feelings, as another string, many strings tied to her bow.*


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