Why labor still in this archaic art

And push by might this caber heavy pen

To etch in ink sweet musings of the heart

That they rage ever proud of words therein?

So, duty pressed to wax in flattery—

Each premised worth upon which love is bound,

Yet waning quite in fool’s idolatry

At any thought that might sweet truth confound.

Still, what of love suggests truth in a smile

Where painted countenance and lace do ply

Their weary trade to hearts and hopes beguile,

That love may soon upon the altar die?

This stylograph I wield at heavy cost,

Which, given grace, I should with candor toss.