Myrtie, my notion of no one to write about
Seems to be any one other than you;
Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night about
Twelve anapestic good verses and true.
Eke my conception of no girl to gaze upon,
O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest,
Saving the one that I'm spilling this praise upon—
You, as it isn't unlikely you've guessed.
Also my notion of nowhere to be at all—
Pardon, Myrtilla, my lack of restraint—
Notion of mapless location is——d. it all—
Anywhere you simultaneous ain't.
My Ladye's Eyen
Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye auncient theme
Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme,
And through ye blessed hours of slepe—thilk eyen or browne or blue
Doe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by goddiswoundes thaie doe!
O gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche ther bee,
And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a hitte wyth mee,
Hir eyen ben soe o'erpassing bright yt holden mee in thrall,
I tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne slepe atte all.
To a Lady
Ah, Lady, if these verses glowed
Warmer than chill appreciation—
If they should lengthen to an "Ode
On Fascination—"
If I should cast this cold restraint,
Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing—
If but your portrait I should paint
In colours glowing—
Assuming I should write such dope—
If, haply, you can but conceive it—
As Fahrenheit as Laurence Hope—
You'd not believe it.