Sonnet

O thou, to whom my heart (no longer mine) Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued; Fair goodly frame of Nature’s work divine To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good, Let not thy scorn pursue the Muse’s Son, For gentle is his mind, and pure his flame, And for thy love he shall inscribe thy name Among those Fair whose peerless beauty won Renown from ancient bards, on harp and lyre So sweetly sounded, that the wondering Earth, Thro’ all her climes, yet listens to the strain. O meekly-blooming Flower, if on thy birth Soft Pity shed her dew, quench not his fire, Quench not his hallow’d fire with cold disdain.