Bygone Fancy

Write I, and not another, in jealousless inward discover. The beauty of my eye and the match of my heart In overflowing settlement think I of her with feelings tart Pondering: what else could I have done? The one she rests upon she loves, but I still love but one. It’s not his fault, nor mine I think, of order that she chose. The perfect pretty polite mystique loves on orders from Above. Still I, my eye of mind flashes, bear the thoughts of whom arose, No better than her to mind comes me when dreaming of the love. If right she be for me I ask, in all the ways I see, Why should not I be the one to call this girl my bride to be? God knows, and so I must be wrong. For such He does decree: Everytime those blond blue-eyes laugh in his arms, gazing happily.