By My Sweet Love’s Request:

What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian.’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.’
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

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Sonnet: To the Muse

O Thou my Muse, reflecteth much Thy flame
That maketh words within me flow like fire,
Abating not, as torrents deadly spill;
Upending doth within me all transpire.

O Thou my Muse, as once I did disclaim–
And though I run a thousand miles away
And lock up all my pen and ink, and still
Without consent, so choose to disobey–

Yet never could I wrest myself, reclaim
My very life, for all was lost… in Thee.
And only once again Thy captive, will
I find such words as once had set me free.

Then with Thy fire tame me, O my Muse.
My quill and my desire are Thine to use.

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Sonnet XII: (lyrical couplets)

If swore I, ne’er describe to thee my heart:
How desperately doth it yearn; and start
To quicken at the moment first I see–
And when I hear a voice and know ’tis thee.

Withheld I, how’t doth race when com’st thou near:
And skip when touch my cheek to quell my fear;
To pound its expectation of thy touch,
Doth fierce thou see my body shake as much;

Withheld how at its quiet pace I’d be
Amazed, as beat our hearts in synchrony,
My wonder as their beat would nary stray;
Thence, locked my parchment, quill, and ink, away.

If swore I, ne’er describe my heart to thee,
Then would it’s beating stopped forever be?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Sonnet XI: (Shakespearean blankverse)

If swore I, ne’er  describe to thee my heart:
How desperately doth it yearn for thee;
To quicken at a very sight of thee,
And every instant when I hear thy voice;

Withheld I, how’t doth race when com’st thou near:
How might it skip when dost thou touch my cheek;
To pound its expectation of thy touch;
That mayst, thou see, so fierce,  my body shake;

Kept secret I, its quiet morning pace:
Amazed, as beat our hearts in synchrony,
My wonder as they nary would diverge;
Thence, locked my parchment, quill, and ink, away;

If swore I, ne’er describe to thee my heart;
Would thence unheard,  its beat forev’r be still?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Part 11: (Shakespearean blankverse)

Divinely “stepping rhythm:” blankverse–thou,
Most courtly poetess, to me once wrote–
To promenade as flawlessly anon.
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Sonnet X: (blankverse)

If swore I: never to describe my heart;
How desperately yearns it so for you;
How quickens it at every sight of you,
At every instant when I hear your voice;

Withheld I: how it races when you near;
How might it skip whene’er you’ve touched my cheek;
To pound its expectation of your touch;
And hard enough, you see my body shake;

Kept secret I: its quiet morning pace;
Amazed, as beat our hearts in synchrony;
My wonder as they long would not diverge;
Then, locked my paper, pen, and ink, away;

If swore I: never to describe my heart;
Unheard, would then its beat forever still?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: