For you, I’d have spun the most loving lays.
Praises of passion that compare to none.
With words to amaze the most frozen gaze.
And songs that when sung cannot be outdone.
What you’ve tasted so far, it hardly starts
to explain your grace that powered my rhymes.
That sweet nectar called love that filled my heart,
and made time stand still so many great times.
All I can say, since it’s all gone away:
I would’ve made Shakespeare shake in the ground.
If he still heard, he’d hear my words and sway,
from each sly syllable to sincere sound.
But instead, he lies dead, while I still write
of what could’ve been, instead of this might.