I sit here writing sonnets in the night
in Oat Lane, London City, EC2;
some heavy in their tone and some are light
and every single one is penned for you.
But what goes on inside old Pewt'rers' Hall
(at present with your radiance suffused)
I do not know. I can't see through this wall.
For all I know, my hopes are now abused.
Some wealthy Pewter Goblet Maker's son,
for all I know, might now be melting ice,
winning your smiles that should be dearly won
with scarcely diamonds', still less metal's price!