These letters bid you come again,
Not just in dreams but in my arms.
Let pleasure find its best way in,
Set off the devil's own alarms.
I'll play the fool, an old one now,
Who yet believes your batting eyes
Outspeak the misdirected vow
That soon enough proved bad disguise.
Long living takes a need,  give leave
I offer my sincere repeats--
My pen and ink, my sacristy,
Another round of wrinkled sheets.
Unless your heart bends otherwise,
Our foolish pleasures soon seem wise.