The Bracken W***e

What a women would do with her unrequited uncontrollably fraight.

                            Sonnet

There was just nothing more I could take pick,

If cockles of my heart would have me stage,

With darnel, have parade herself one's sage,

To whom, did this for ransom make so sick?

St John, this fellow grieves me than adore;

The scarcest species yet was stooped to get,

Would fair evade such notice bracken w***e,

In clearing those made way by love's regret!

I'll not be so selective, than to vetch,

Hold Lily of the Valley's, vitriol

That if I were persuaded to have fetch

A monkshood cower would hire my aching soul.

So grouped that my suspicion slept for hours,

Were potions used for trading poison flowers.