Thou appeared as an angel having forsaken thy divine abode
To tread a soil unworthy of thy looks, haughty and cold.
Whoever was by on that glorious day I first met thee
No doubt saw the impression thou madest upon me.
Shall I confess my soul was at once filled with passion
And that I anon wanted to clasp thee in my longing arms?
Thou canst be both loving and cruel, and, sure of thy charms,
Thou taketh pleasure in using thy wit to increase my frustration.
In truth, to take up Wilmot’s rude phraseology,
Converting to sperm my spirit and my heart
Is the constant chemical pursuit of my humble craft
And the condition, between us, of any possible felicity.
These lines, fair lady, thou shalt read and dismiss
Though they are, from thee, worth many a kiss.
