I count it pleasing that you are coy
What woman’s art you do employ
That in my heat you do demur,
That of your love, I must infer;
That you are modest, is no disgrace;
I would be shy in your place
For what tools have I to win your favor
But my lines which I will flavor
With all the sweetness of my skill
To mount your heart high on its hill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes, I am shy, there is no doubt And oh what fancy words you spout I shall ever flattered be That you write such poetry