An Elizabethan Ode
At your mercy here I be,
Methinks thee has a curse to bestow.
Perchance love's ghostly torment
Chooseth me as a discontented lover.
And thou knows aught of the melancholy fortune
Which poisons my dreams at night.
This mischance of fate doth make a winter in my soul.
Alas, ne'er more than friends we are.
I'll speak nothing to you, sweet villain,