To Juliet, with Love.

Oh, what fool I was my dear,
Thy love, I hath missed blindly.
Tis, a belated love which I speak in fear,
Of a passion, which flowed so serenely.

Too late have I read thy thoughts,
How vain I was, of my like for thee.
In sweet surrender I hath wrought,
I write for a beauty that could be.

And seek to do honour, love,
To thine distress I hath wrongly caused.
A requiem I ask, for this dove,
Nay in joy, not sighs should thou be embossed.

I bid thee farewell and a cherished memory,
As have I when I think of thee, so fondly.