Sonnet 18½ . . . a reply is received.
Dear Mr Shakespeare I find you are too bold.
To count my feelings for you I can tell;
They number exactly none if truth be told,
So thou impertinence can go to hell.
A summer’s day is inappropriate;
Lovely be I, but caution tread at least
Ye shall find my temper intemperate
If on my darling buds your leer doth feast.
I do wonder wither thou eyes didst rest
From peeking upon one so fairly limbed,
Risked per chance a glimpse in seeing undressed
By chamber keyhole glanced my form untrimm’d.
I implore do not pen another sonnet,
‘Till my finger has your ring up on it.