I pen these lines upon that cypher’d cover
(Gift, I will answer for it, of some lover)
Which you have open’d for me more than once,
And when you told me I must write therein
And found me somewhat tardy to begin,
Call’d me but idler, tho’ you thought me dunce.
Ali! this was very kind in you, sweet maiden,
But, sooth to suy, my panniers are not laden
With half the wares they bore
In days of yore.
Beside, you will believe me when I say
That many madcap dreams and fancies,
As old dame Wisdom with her rod advances,
Scamper away.