Is it her taking, that deprives my rest
Of sweetly nothings offered by a sleep...

When better days turn-in to better nights
I dare not dream for seldom they appear...

When all my substance needs not breath of air
And eyes devolve into the depths of night...

Your single-hood gives time to beauty's waste:
Such charity you will in time donate...

If you with wit and patience reach my chest
And veer in left, be wary of your find...

Which season could compare to you my love?
Yes winter dreams are snowy as your skin...

When I return by thought to youthful days;
I sprightly swing upon those swings again...

Should twenty more of you and all the same
Proclaim that they are you and you for me...

My furry coated fluff-ball does so bark-
As tho' by each a roar is pleasure met...

If he, like I, whom view with dimming light:
The final setting sun within his glass...

My mirror cries, my mirror sighs
But mine are dry, too dry to cry...

If found her beauty, then have found my eyes:
As painter's draw their muse, do mine of hers...