To Speak
To speak of me of time and love, is to speak to show me the bitterness of its self doth make. For time they say is but I fickled mistress, of whom she doth make widowers to her jesters keep.
Upon her watchtower, does she sit to see the world a by. A broken hart is but hers to mend as she sits.
To speak to me of love and joy for they do abound when all is right she sends a round.
Truth be told, Im in your hold. Its there that I wish to stay, with in your arms time has no yarns to pull me away. Though fate doth tempt me, your love holds her at bay
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