Your Highness, may this sonnet's throbbing pulse of beauty be a token of
-Oh stop this phonetics boredom empyreal pathetic lesson of your love to me-
Rise, rise your eyes, stop morbid moping, ride a carousel, get frolics with the ladies not so troubled with so somber deep,
They will simply make it sex of you -a whole lot of exclamation stanza,
...
Read full text