Myrtie, you weep that the bard has neglected you,
Passed you, forgotten you, let you alone.
Bless you, Myrtilla, I never suspected you
Ever would speak to me, sweet, in that tone.
Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned to you
Only on days when I've nothing to do,
Otherwise I have no time to attend to you,
Others, you say, are more weighty than you.
Sweet, you allege I have not enough time for you,
Yes, and you say that I hold you but light,
Only when pressed do I reel off a rhyme for you
* * *
Lady Myrtilla, you've doped it out right.
