Now on your face may dawn a smile,
To think that rhymes both neat and new,
To end your stanzas will beguile
Your pen—till “envoy” you must brew;
But half the poem yet is due.
And though she ready be and willing,
To your shy muse you yet must sue—
For ballade-mongering is killing.
Here’s stanza three, and now they rile,
Those end words that of every hue