Most Sweet Queen –

No more music, the false maker of mood.

Those in love are poisoned by the general

tongue, singing with a century’s sickness

not their own. Rather Play! Roll the moment

on towards the crisp, cut grass of England,

and breathless, sucking peaches, roll again.

                                      How now, Lady!

Man is the maker, so woman makes joy

in breaking up his boring constancy.

                                      Hear me, Queen.

First, see the playing green swell with laughter

beneath our game. It rolls itself below

the balls and makes no time for history.