Sonnet 18½ . . . a reply is received.

Dean Cracknell



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.