Dissembler

Of fair muse, that you would bespeak mine ears
Of the highest praise that is to be had,
Of soft threaded shoes on beauteous feet.
Yet I have a single maiden to meet
That has not flown from my face with such mad
Insults and taunts as could bring me to tears!
Shall I listen to your counsel from now
Until the end of the stars hidden in
The clouds that do cover up the night sky?
Or tell plainly that lies you do apply,
Or that you would prick me up in black sin,
Or that you would make me just like a sow!
So am I held by your thoughts, hopes, your dream;
But reality is not what these seem.

                                                               Dissembler, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012