Had I a man's fair form, then might my plea
Be cast toward thy wavy, cheerful ears.
Had I but any lack of gaucherie,
Then might my dulcet speech with thee endear.
If every man doth this conceit deny,
Then venial be every gaffe of mine.
If thou on me dost dote, then might my sigh
Be echoed swiftly through thy turbid mind.
But had benign Fortuna spun me well,
Wouldst thou to me forever cling and wed?
Would then acute delight our own love quell?
Shall I now mine own fervid ardor shed?
Rest now and sleep the greatest slumber wist,
As I await thee in my lonesome tryst.
