My mistress says I do not write love poems,
Insisting that I write poems for love.
She questioned when received another note,
How come when towards the end she always dies.
From early on, when strolling ’round the lake;
I pointed to a grey-eared s’caping duck,
‘The lake is you, the flying duck is me;’
You turned away as though I struck you dead.
How can I write if I don’t torture me?
By ‘magining your rude untimely death?
For strolling round a lake absence of you,
I might as well, with plague, be in my bed.
A hundred thousand deaths I die each day,
For thinking thoughts of having you away.