Sonnet 17: Oh, Was It A Shrew That I Didst Marry

Oh, was it a shrew that I didst marry That now makest this heart of mine to groan Whose warring quarrelsome tongue does tarry And to make this thine husband’s heart to moan. Thine sweet tongue lashes like a thousand whips And tortures my soul with such deep pain Shouting and scolding with thine hands on hips Does make my head spin and drives me insane. When all I did was to look at another Whilst we were shopping in the market square. She was old enough to be thine mother And we would have made an unlikely pair. It’s thee my sweet that’s my heart’s desire Our love is not for the funeral pyre.