"Of rhymes do I dream? ’Tis my love orders me Of love still to dream; swain devoted to be, ‘Thyself make thou happy. Rhymes leave now alone The rhyme I seek thou art. I love thee my own. What’s rhyme that thou turnest thy thoughts thitherward, Mere bramble on wall, hedging round our vineyard, I care not for words, for asseverations, My time if I pass in these sweet delusions.’"