Embleton, Ron “William Shakespeare writing at home”

A Lover’s Complaint

How rarely in thine eyes do shine in truth,

Mere semblance of a pleasant thought within!

A frown of discontent sullies thy youth,

Despite my best expense to favor win.

How hardly exigent are Love’s demands?

Why does a spirit ingrate rein thy soul?

When I have braved a host of hostile lands,

Blind to barriers, and bound for treasure whole?

Which upon reception thou didst scorn,

Remembring not love’s tender deeds of past.

What soft skillful invention couldst adorn

Me to procure thy luscious smile at last?

Yet—if these efforts do not appease thee,

Unyoke me, cease: and take thy leave of me.