It is thy will that thou must be off limits,
To my thoughts and to my touch,
Such sad a thought bereft my spirits,
Of the lust which had warmed so much.
Thou dost mock my passion with thy wily wits,
Prithee, Love, what dost thou gain?
From the venom with which you spit,
That inspire my malady, my tender pain.
But thy prerogative sides with hate,
Thou dost accuse me sinfully,
With words suffice to berate,
That are not chosen mindfully.
   Well, Love, I'll do away with you,
   Though through my heart a cold breeze blew.