A Sonnet The Third
What ask’d virtue that is love, I wonder,
That accustom’d to the world I hold dear,
A concept of thought under warm cov’rs,
Despite this, thou art more a thing to fear,
And yet, I gaze on without lustful eyes,
For neither is rotting of virgin heart,
But, I lament naught seeing thou art’s highs,
Temp’rament more bound to thou than apart,
Seeking one’s heart is not but tied apart,
A brill’iant stroke of luck sought naught but here,
To love more deeply judge than on a fart,
Foreways I see marr’iage coming yonder,
What can thy say about love to thou’est,
To explain rath’r than to wrong a jest?
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