Sonnet Xc:

XC I wonder if these sonnets which I sing To thee alone--our secret love's poor cheer, By any chance will reach the common ear, And feel the puncture of the critic's sting? I vow, if I supposed the whispering, Tender and low, with which I draw so near To thy soft smiles, might in some coming year Be cried about like any public thing;-- Made the gross jest of street and market-place, Profaned and wronged by every bitter clown, Whose wit is pretext for a fool's grimace;-- If thus I feared, I'd set my angry face Against the chance, hurl lyre and chaplet down, And of our love leave no betraying trace.