Sonnet 2

Come speak damn foolish pen without the sense,

To help me write the words I need to say.

Go find the muse, who traveled with you hence,

To lover's glade, with coy young fools at play.

Why do the rhymes cascade from other's lips,

And blossom forth with easy flowing art,

To kiss the ear with song and warbling quips,

While cupid's arrows pierce the lover's heart?

But you false friend fain call yourself a pen,

That scratch and skip to my poor heart's confound,

With words that sink into the foggy fen,

Round tongue-tied brain with bound and hobbled sound?

More poetry lives in her curving smile,

Than this poor fumbling fool could e're compile.