Again, doth stir in pretty slumber so,
But slight, her waking; dreameth then of he
Whose bearing and whose presence seemed unique.
And he, of small advantage, seemed as wise;

Yet hardly did aware, he seem, nor know;
Was more, that either view, than blind decree.
About him still, so more than just mystique;
Yet not conceit, as others she’d surmise.

And of his expertise, might nothing show;
Unless such confidence she chanced to see.
And might she little know of such technique,
Unless through conversation might surprise.

Though not precisely modest, I’d agree,
My love wouldst speak my greatness (most unwise!)

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

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