Olde English at 2 A.M.

The Ladys words: Thou hast maketh me ravenous ! Upon the brush of angels wings I humbly beg forgiveness, for this soul has oer stepped her bounds and shall take thy leave kind sir. But wishes cannot bearest harvest neigh? If wishes could then wealthy would I be ! Ye bespeak of such things that the Bard himself found difficult and yet so eloquent are ye that I am transformed.... Sadly, I fear thou shalt ne'er taste the salt nor shall the wet of mine tear touch thine cheek........ The Gentlemans reply: Me Lady I pray thine pardon and beseech ye harken to mine soulfelt plea. Thine words falleth like snow upon mine doorstep, a winters gray dress on thee heath and birds in the aires with frosted wing,. daring never more to give out a song, Thine ravenous hunger for Cupid's fail dart, thy bitter tears and wishes cast to thee night. All these things do I adore. Thine own sweet words do so implore. Then reap thee the wicked from this ancient orb, And listen not to their mournful, tempestious roar. Cast thine faire gazee to the morrows, And pray find me in thy dawn. Faire Lady in thine far castle keep, thy battlements adorned withe banners torn. Why must thee hide thine heart so deep, whence oncet a faire grace now so forelorne. Thne battle flags furled and hidden, thy sword and shield cloaked in black. Thy prancing steed so long unridden. all a cause of creativities lack. Thine own muse is nay forlorned ye, Erato sings sweetly for those listen. Must you languish in misery's cold, mystic sea, As thine frigid tears in lost creativity glisten. Run up thine standard oer ramparts bold, sound thy fanfaire oer the lonely land. Let thine only tender heart unfold. and take thy quill in hand. And whence thou vanquished thine petty foe, Sing thine own true name to one in wonder. Boding in a tomb thine enemy laid low. Pray let me see thine own words true thunder.