This apple here, that I now hold.
How wound up thee here, I wonder?
Thou hast come so long to me, sweet Gold,
And thy subsistence I now ponder.
Perhaps thy journey was not long,
But ‘twas not I who plucked thee
Thy sanctity - like a ravished virgin - gone;
Alas: hold’st I thine probity.
I mark thy bruises and imperfections now.
Where hast thou been, dear’st fruit of mine?
T’were marked upon this journey - how?
‘Tis now my marks inside thy rind.
Thoust pleasureth me, Thoust maketh me whole.
And although, unblemished, would thee purely sweeten,
Lady Alice - with thine beauty I cannot unknow -
Thy usédness hath mine life completed