RoMeo'S DiaRy

1

O, beloved! Where shall I start to write,
Beauty which thee hide but all do see;
Purify me with it, beauty infinite,
My murky days, as thine, sweet to be.

Upon bards' art defies, thou nat'ral wit;
Bless from thee, they wishfully plea,
If thou give not thy bless, bards shall writ;
Within their verse, your name blessed shall be.

They shall not blame their speechless tongues,
As words do not describe thee well;
their blameless pens, by thee were hung,
And words, disgraced, on thee rebel';

Then thee called me in a glorious day,
And theft the words I was going to say.