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.