As to how I feel thou wilt never know like winter days crownèd with golden sun, like bold summer replete with summer snow while autumn's trees lose of their foliage none. Much better for thee to view such a thing than perjure the priz'd innocence of thine, for such is its worth angels would take wing and gather round thee thinking thou divine. But O, to be at sixes and sevens not wishing for thee to know of mine plight, mouthing mine sorrows to the cold heavens bearing this burden of wrong that is right. For better for thee to think what thou will when for me bad is good while all good ill.