Response To Sonnet 79 (W Shakespeare) Poem by Mary Champion

Methinks ‘tis sour grapes ye relish now,
for bitter are the words ye hurl my way.
But why the puzzled frown upon thy brow?
as dull December fails to dazzle May.
I grant thou art supreme in penning rhyme;
although thy versifying could not fail
to be inspired by beauty bright as mine
that makes the sun itself seem weak and pale.
Thy honeyed words are music to mine ears,
yet flattery hath circumscribed effect
to counteract the cruelty of years
that, in thy case, hath seen thy person wrecked.
Ye cannot hold that I should have declined
a butt so trim, a visage so unlined.