I cannot tell you what I know,
Of true love and passion.
I hate its presence in my heart,
Loath to feel its ration.
But it had found me in the hall,
And waited for a time.
'Til one day of theatric fashion
it showed itself for me to find.
A call it cries to he in hand,
But the answer is confused.
Is he really as I see?
Or is he playing me for fool?
