Alas, be not that of which we desire, In silent qualms in the mist of night, Heed not thy ashes in but a simple fire, Until sheltered souls take inevitable flight. Should wistful hearts draw intimate shares, And unlikely pierrots dance beneath the stars, May once aflamed gallance hold peaceful flares, Drawing fated lands to treacherous wars. Perhaps be it He who crafts us without thought, Keeping us to puppeteer in his theatric arts, Unyieldingly entranced towards this selfish plot, And grants a diapered Cupid in piercing hearts. Let us wish but act none to but a simple mind, Shall indefinitely harbor the luminant seas, Seeks civil disobedience mocked unkind, And leaves us despaired in burnt debris. Why then, doth we grandiloquently love, By which dying threads escapes thy spool, And pleasant hawkings to hunt from above, Leaving us to play the undoubted fool.