Your sonnets, sir, fail to move me.
If I discern your sentiments aright,
the elements of love for you are three:
One, me to be a foil for your might;
Two, me to be compared to all those things
that only the infatuated use
(Oh, if I am another rose petal,
or if my gaze ever again sings,
or if my wine-red lips are made booze,
I shall brain myself upon your mettle);
Three, love for you means consciously to choose
briny rhymes, tortured meter, flower-petal-
laden cliches. In short, good sir, your heart
is a pauper, betrayed sadly by your art.
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