You sang me many a whimsical sign,
Yet the firmaments my purpose fought,
And now it seems a misled love begot.
Alas, a wilted rose, my beauty be for naught.  

Yet now that I profess my heart be thine,
Wilt thou allow thine honesty to falter?
Nay, it be not sanctified by thy Father’s altar,
Thus none could blame thee be defaulter.

So, Wilt thou love me with lips like wine?
I challenge thee to sip as thou art free,
And surely for my form your ***** shall pine.
Prithee boy, Wilt thou instead love me?