My love for thee will fade soon,
And time shall wrap you out of me.
Then no rhyme of mine with you shall be,
Neither the birds will sing nor no beauty.
Do thee know the forewords, so
I shall die after that, though
Violins shall play thy song, dear
You will have mine own rhyme
And on thy lips my rhythm shall shine.
I still love thee truest,
And that’s meekly lie.
If this be true my dear, I writ
Pray for the poet to die.
I have drawn a sketch of thee,
With words of rhyme and euphony.
If thy lamps could see for sure,
Pray for me to love thee no more.