March 4, 2024
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Hark! Thou art a rude boy, thou art, aye,
Pray, why dost thou vex me so, I beseech?
With thy swagger and thy insolence, nay,
Thou mak'st my heart within me doth impeach.
Thy words, they sting like arrows, sharp and keen,
Yet still thou wear'st that smirk upon thy face.
Oh, would that thou couldst see the pain I ween,
For in thy presence, I find no solace.
But soft! I shall not let thee have thy way,
For I am mistress of my own desire.
I'll bid thee hence, begone without delay,
And from my thoughts, I'll banish thee entire.
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