Should not I know what true love is,
My heart would not brood, nor syncopate,
In time with yours, for all our flaws,
The flower of my passion doth gestate.
Ah, the bitter surge of a poison word,
That courses, surges through my veins,
Sullies the ventricles of my devoted heart,
And doth inspire these melancholy refrains,
Whose worth to you be unintelligible,
For I am the Fool, captive on that ship,
But for Love even Fools are eligible,
For them even Love will stoop and dip.
     Two lifetimes of Love with errors replete,
     Still I writ this sonnet at your feet.