In countless ways this truth may e'er be put,
For who, I ask, could give the whole of love?
As beauty quakes, should you but move your foot,
Or I rethink but what I'm thinking of.
In countless ways, I yet could exercise
That status given me in terms of rank,
Or else, dumbfounded, prove increasing wise,
Too prone indeed to break thanksgiving's bank.
But some yet say mere talk, e'en now, is cheap,
But sonnets, Love, may prove some other thing,
As words, well put, may make an angel weep,
Or off-key Beauty clear her throat and sing.
I need you so; hence weep or sing, I pray,
As I, impassioned, would else work or play!