Do I wait for my Love, wait for this muse
To find me napping, or with pen in hand
Only to savour each whimsied demand
Where I shall be punished should I refuse
And should I refuse, yet follow her still
My muse may bless with an exquisite penance
The prick of her whip my arrant ebullience
Which fills my blood with a dubious thrill
And with this blood may I find the diction
To letter each name she calls in rapture
‘Fore I collapse beneath her exhaustion
Recording each wail she deems I capture
Dear Love, be merry; I came to my muse!
With a pen in hand, how could one refuse?