Dear Sire

Dear Sire, minstrel and poet oh most dear prithee doth tell whilst thou with quill adore thine art of rarest breed, mine heart doth peer whereon I do beseech thee write me more of yesterday's sweet sinks, for ne'er in hie didst ask of thee, why doth mine eyelids sleep? such was the word upon ye lips to die for sake of passion is to live in deep E'er mine memory serveth long and true aside the likes of you none else shouldst do forsaking all the glories of a strangers brew I choose thine own to rest upon thy dew Oh flower of incarnadine and shine in dainty maketh dearth as rare as thine