How shall I to thee confess my love?
Gift thee divers roses and doves?
Regale thee ‘til cometh dawn?
Enchant thee with amorous song?
Thou art but my physic
That heals the wounds of Cupid’s absence
That remedies the soul anguished
Sans joy and passion
E’en in fate withered
Thy beauty shant cease to live
Yet doth the beauteous rose e’en perish
Its petals ere burning red
Ravagéd by eternal earth
So too wilt thou be spoiled by Death
So too will the agéd hands of Chronos
Pluck the tresses of thy head, ere burning red
Just as the leaves of the former
Though in bosom, e’erlasting thou liv’st
Untouched by time’s misfortunes
Nor present nor future
Shall o’ercome thy features
Of myself, thou art fore’er
Now cease I, for at hindmost of writ we come
And anew to my question I bid thy tongue
O bearer of my fancy, how shall I to thee confess my love?
May ‘t start with th’ three above