Ah, dearest Will, you win, hands down.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXIX)


Dear William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, they'll
Not know you as you are. Tis as fr'intents
You wanted; oer four hundred years quite dense
With progress have erased you; that detail
Used then to masque is all they know t'avail
Them of as, "in black ink [my]Love-" fr'intents
Not thee, "may still shine bright." Tis called pretense
Whenas I try t'acknowledge thee. I've no bail?
The "gordian knot" who set in place to stir
That world back then has worked so well, what's true
Is not known now. As for thy Love, in poor
Reply what Francis Meres knew shall not do,
You are a pervert now. Your love in tour
"May still shine bright," yet your Love is just who?

23Apr25c