To Sorania,With Love

Am not an aesthetic poet. I've no apollos laurel in ode. Too fragile is my tongue to tell your face; For your look I dare to speak. Play me that Amphion's harp That in your mouth dwells For your sake I shall be paris For the Helen's face you wear I shall draw Menelaus up again To Trasimene Field. I shall seek the Delphian Oracle That your heart I may fathom. Shall I employ Seba, the questionnaire That the discretion of your choice I win. Sorania, my Helen I am Ovid to his Flea And as jealous as Oenon Lead me to Venus' chamber And your dream I promise be. I stand by the promise of Jephthah To be your Romeo in life and in death.