Your beauty makes a coward of my tongue,
As if thy form has robbed me of my voice.
With Cupid’s blind-shot arrow am I stung,
Though, by my faith, I dote without a choice;
Your lips steal the very breath from my lungs
And drive my mind beyond the edge of sense.
By the heat of thy touch, is thought o’erwrung,
Yet, by that same palm, I crave indulgence;
While ‘tis sin to love thee, I’ll be brave still,
Praying such boldness overwhelms your heart.
Give me thy hand, if it should be thy will,
And I’ll stoke the fires of passion with art.
But speak my name and all I am is thine,
For with my pen I’ll praise thy love divine.