My duty, overdue, to sing your praise,
Has, Love, of late, but suffered that neglect
Accrued, so oft, by undistinguished days
To which "book-keepers" give no real respect.
My duty, Love, has caught my wayward eye
As I, in giving praise to England's bard,
Did lift no finger even, Love, to try
To execute my joy, which ne'er proves hard.
Therefore, I proffer you a lover's note,
Which you should read ere you should go to bed.
It says, "Although I proved a bit remote,
My warmest wishes, to your name, are wed."
Know this, my Love, as what mocks proof is near,
And you may feel what others chance to hear.