Whether my Lady will to hear of me

The unrimed speech wherein the heart is heard,

Or whether she prefer to the perfumed word

And powdered cheek of masking irony?

Decorous dance steps ape simplicity,

The well-groomed sonnet is to truth preferred;

Let us be all things so we’re not absurd,

Dabble with forms and damn the verity.

Bardlets and bardkins, I do bite my thumb.

Corset the muse and “directoire” her grace,

Marcel the elf-looks of sa chevelure,

Enamel Melpomene’s too sun-kissed face

And then to have your fame forged doubly sure

Let taste rule all and bid the heart be dumb.