Tho' modern pen has lost a cursive touch
and words archaic; poet's old cliches,
electric type has still the phrase to clutch
and render beauty's make through sonnet praise.

Have I then prompt to key my quill to prove
iambic worth has ink for grace so rare?
Tho' words cannot do just, nor then improve
but page her beaut for those that cannot stare.

A lady's fair in metered writ, romance!
And have so in; revered poems of old
now newer peach must too afford a chance
to muse a bard, that none her flair withhold.

Let modern sonnet's ode new blush to art!
And tho' from present phrase, they still impart.