Willn’t I, of the cruelties of love, bellow and speak
For if it be not of love, in prose I would write
Yet love not knows until it dies, what be its deep
And if not love it turns out to be, lovers art to cry
But love of ours, my Juliet, be not measured by time
Or springs or summers, for these things an end wilt have
Yet to the depths of immortality, my heart is thine
And I will get thee a star- or the moon itself, if thou want
Ancient and stupidly bliss, we art to be called by our peers
Yet trapped they live, caged like pets among their fears
Not believing in the reality of true love- eternal as time itself
Having no beginning, but just a bond between souls, lacking end
D’ you believe not, mine subject of dreams and morning delight
For I promise, if our love not be infinite, then make it so I might

With poems and plays, like Homer’s works, your name is not to die
‘Cause people forget me won’t- not by me, but because an angel was mine