Alexandrian Sonnet 10 Poem by Alexandrian Ink

Not for the fleeting wind do I calculate,
Though my anemometer has that quality;
Not for the frowning cloud do I prediction state,
Yet a meteorologist has that authority;
Neither for the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
Not to tell of good or evil luck
Or that the day will be climate or gloomy;
But for you Christian soul, do I question make,
Your Master suffered the most ignominious crucifixion
He died not for honour, he died for your sake.
Then you, his servant, you say, 'Death is not my portion.'
To that your bawdy rude tongue I say, beshrew, fie, fie
What life will you have, if you do not like your master die?