I have prepared the world to be, by thee, tak’n,
But in the whorl of love, what have I forsak’n?
Ith pain worth hurtful letters spoken
To be the King of Hell for demon Queens
Who repay not this gracious given token?
I speak and say nay! ‘tis not worth the Hell
To burn for basic beauties of this realm,
To make thyself a sacrificial cell
For those who love not to so overwhelm.
Perhaps, all love is rotten to the blood
And bone profusely shed as bitter sheens
Revolve around thine heart, prepared to bud.
But perhaps not, for the pain of love aches
In worthiness to she who ne’er forsakes.