To Whomever it May Concern

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They that in haste your heart in shackles throw,
Can to your gentle grace no justice show;
Their cold kiss burns bland, ignorant of bliss
Like lech'rous leeches 'pon your lustre lips.
Too often must in the name of such love
Words of worship clip the wings of the dove;
In pretty prayers do they cage you in,
In hallowed temples, sepulchres of sin.
No verse must love paths universal pave,
For love's Muse no such elocutions craves;
Neither to love nor you could I decree:
'Don the garb of my conceited poetry!'
Not here could I give you the love you seek
Too strong a word is love, and words are weak.