Idle Lover

My lordship speaks perilous poison if he wilt not forswear love
I shalt ne'er slander grace vouchsafe fortune with your vow
Methinks your manner quenches winter's breast
wherefore vehemence foul dost warrant woe
Were it you who would seek thee only a maiden woman
then loath in thy mischance of my wicked torment
Hence I will ask question of myself as a lady
and perchance envy yon wanton goblet or ghostly bosom
Alas, every death doth dream through mortal measure
Sanctify nothing. Tempt me from melancholy night.
Loathsome farewell, yield.

a compilation by A.M. Brown and Page Carriveau