Thy sapphire eyes do taunt with flames of ice
until mine own they do with love espy.
My thoughts, to you, seem dull and imprecise
and thy aloofness dost halt my reply.
Good sir, you mock and make a fool of me;
and though you know I shall say otherwise,
to thy past loves I feel such enmity.
Thy sleepless nights I often do despise,
for thou becomest listless and withdrawn.
And why is it thyself thou dost condemn?
Thou art too pert to be so woebegone.
Thy madness keeps my life in sheer mayhem.
But I, oh me, in spite of all these things,
will love thee still, no matter what that brings.