If I should write the splendor of your eyes,
if I describe your elegance and grace,
the readers may conclude the writer lies.
Who would believe the beauty of your face?
What fool will heed my voice in years to come,
so filled with of loving images of you.
They’ll sooner think I worship demon rum,
then yield my case and pay your charm its due.
I dare not write a play about your smile,
what future actress then could play your part?
My shrine the angry critics would defile
and this brings a great distress into my heart.
I cannot, then, make love to you in verse;
but—if we cannot act, can we rehearse?
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