My heart ne’er beats as quick as Juliet’s,

Nor do my cheeks blush pink with winter’s rose.

My eyes untrained in ways of sly coquettes

Betray my virgin lips’ fictitious prose.

Of ivy spires and splendid halls I dream,

And gallant knights and tender beaus I read,

But earnesty’s submissive words I deem

Unfit for food of love, for breasts to bleed.

Yet in your wake I feel a gentle pull,

The likeness of a friendly ocean breeze,

And steadily my heart beats on, so full

Of hearty broth that sets my smile with ease.

Although it hides behind a humble ruse

It’s of the same to ancient poets’ muse.