On Love

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