Juliet to Rosaline
Sweet coz, I thank you for your prudish vow
And its oppressive honourable weight,
That bade you flout the youth whose costly show
Of love might make even you importunate.
In the walled garden of my vestal thoughts
I loitered coldly happy, purely pale,
When lo, carnation-bearing love's mad notes
Came thrush-clear past a whitethorn's truthless veil.
I take your leavings gladly, having learned
That Christ's feast-scraps are savoured as His feast:
Fair saintly coward, she who never burned
With earthly passion knows of heaven the least—
I'll not despise your poor virginity
That spites itself and so enriches me.