Sonnet Ccl:

CCL As here I sit and dally with the pen That daily sins against thy loveliness, Weaving a rhyme that only can express My want, and not thy worth, to coming men; I ask myself again, and yet again, What gentle error urges thee to bless With praise a song which others prize as less Than that which ripples from yon twittering wren? Ah, 'tis but pity of my love; no cheer Your taste can gather from a draught like mine-- These bitter lees of that which once was wine; So, sweet deluder, with a patient ear, You mark me stumble on from line to line, And hide in wistful smiles a secret tear.