I have not written any poems today,

For thoughts in verse seem meaningless to you

And so in simple script what hope to weigh—

Ensconced in ink—what passion to imbue?

I still believe my words can reach your heart,

That gentle lyrics might your soul inflame,

That love’s endearments set my lines apart

From others false in praise that laud your name.

Yes, I have scriven much in silent prayer

Imploring gods that you may one day read—

So of my ardor you might then compare,

And thus by force of pen, in love accede.

By fondest dreams that ever lived in rhyme,

May this rondel touch your sweet soul in kind.