Anne Hathaway awoke to find that Will
had crept out from his bed so he could write
a sonnet, penned by feeble candlelight
which caused her to exclaim both loud and shrill
'Why is it that you will not write a play,
instead of wasting everybody's time
with reams of paper, squandered on your rhyme
The rent is due and we've got bills to pay”
Poor William peered above his reading specs
His shoulders shrugging ruefully, he said
'Prithee beloved; Hie thee back to bed
I really haven't got the time for sex
I have to reinforce the English norm
Ed Spenser has been fiddling with the form.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love it, love it. 'Hie thee' indeed. O W Holmes would be proud. Try mine - Brier Fever - Written to a Sliver in my thumb. Adeline