From the frosty eye of the sun do sparks fly
Forsake of my impetious desire.
Too honest, the obvious charm from thy eye
Cast within the linen womb of fire.
This fire doth wisely enforce my lust
That time hast transformed to ashes and dust.
.
Miss Anne, my lust hast become mistress of time
Ill with fear, I weep the substance of your being
Such loathsome venture sitting amidst clime
Is a son of doom, danger that hast been
For nought has whinned this bloating pine
But a curse to the moon; mine which did shine.
Shall sail unseen to west with my disgrace
With soreness of your deject 'to mine face.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem