Sonnet 13

Enough of this modern stuff -- back to 1582 and the sequence.

You carried me away to Ludgate Hill,
For Lyly’s play, put on by Oxford’s men.
‘Twas “Sapho”, and his voice was rather shrill;
Small wonder Phao left her quickly, then.
You bought me books of verse with hard-earned coin
And claimed, each time, you thought of me throughout:
While all the sundry flowers of Gascoigne
Were eaten by the sheep of Colin Cloute.
You poured a ruby wine into my cup
And drank to friendship that we had begun;
We took our seats, relaxing as we supped.
‘Twas hours before our feast was truly done.
What can I give, that you might think was clever?
Accept my words, and you shall last forever.