Though squire I may be, human am I all the more. And further curs'd am I- for when I feel down I can do naught but write bad poems about it. What I hath written is writ to easy my weary mind, and maketh little sense as of yet.

Such is the path of life;

Plagued with poor metaphors,

Ill-feelings and strife.

And yet we wend our weary way,

Though our feet are tired,

Little progress, day by day.

Such is the cruel path we stride;

That we would tear ourselves apart,

Had we not one with which to confide.

And so we seek our partners dear,

So we lure them, so we love them,

Knowing well that they’ll be near.

Why then, must I so helpless be?

So full besmitten by a lass,

Who in all ways exceeds me!

Still I pine, helpless, admiring,

Though she accept me politely,

Is she of my presence tiring?

So many would be far more fit for her!

Strong and able, intelligent and poetic,

Would these lads she prefer?

Why must I so cursed be?

For I will always be her thrall,

And know ill what she thinks of me.

Random scribbles like the one below tend to pop up on erratic bits of parchment, in which mine dwelling be buried.

Though there remains much to be done,

'ere the setting of the sun,

These things I'll finish, by-the-by,

to tarry now with Lady Shy.

And when through life I wend my way,

the hectic press, the milling fray,

one sweet certainty that I myself remind,

I hold a lady's favor, and she bears mine.