My sweetkins' tongue is garnish'd with bee false
That which she tells she doth vainfully swear
She's bred with false breath, yet I love her pulse
Could seek love abroad whilst she rots in fear.
Should I share alack? Man's polygamous
Withal, this is a man's eternal curse
Wherefore shall I rue in my lover's cross
She is smut as a dove without remorse.
If love is pure, why's my lover scurvy
She's noble at heart as crystal sea smoke
The war for her blood is quite a journey
I've professed my thought to be strong as oak.
Her eyes are blear as pale light of half moon
Her own oak bloom from her adultrer goon.
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I would like to translate this poem