“Alas, my Love, I pray
you do not wait,
For bitter buds root in an untilled field,
And you sweet lass
need ne’er tempt such a fate,
The greatest beauties e’en to time must yield.”
“Upon your word, my virtue I concede.
As for the deed, I hasten to your bed.
You may abate both fate and my frank need.
The church can wait, but on your word, we wed!”
“My Love, I am a Soldier of the Crown.
The next campaign, alas, could be my last!
Affairs of state e’er keep me out of town.
Who but the Fates could my future forecast?
You could marry the miller or blacksmith?”
“Ne’er while I in your eyes
see my zenith!”
