If thine arms were branches of rose buds
they 'twould not bloom for a king but thee
thy blossoms 'twould lie dormant and believe
thy buds shalt bloom eternally

T'was not thine eyes nor bouquet of thy smile
that maketh thee fragrant with thy love
my damsel heart most heavy with hope
pray, touch if only with thy glove

Sir, thee not a vain..dim witted wench
but a mere damsel wither'd not with age
I doth worship the temple of thou lips
thy tears run'eth, locked within loves cage

O, why doth thee cast aside like a twig?
arts thou a bootless rude bellied pig?

©SyberRose