Our love absurd
Art though my own and may I now love thee?
Art though my own and shall I thy wife be?
As waiting long lays waste to love and joy
Art though mine, or with me do’st thou toy?
O treat me not like stuff disposable
O treat me not as one intolerable.
For if thou touch then thou hast made a claim.
And from the heart, to lose is to be maimed.
For women are not like to sheep or goats
We have hearts to feel what thou hast wrought
And if thou come to steal then thou’rt a thief.
One of many , causing women grief.
Do not touch with hand or with sweet words
For if thou lie, we feel our love absurd
Copyright © Katherine Thwaite | Year Posted 2016