A Sonnet.When I, in thy fair presence, start to shift
Within my seat, and cast about my gaze:
No boredom setteth my regard adrift,
But wind which bloweth yet on tranquil days.
No break can I contrive against each gust,
To thus afford thee shelter from the gale,
And yet to stem each blast of wind I must,
Or else subject thee to such draughts unhale.
Though some commend such zephyrs for one's health,
And think them wholesome as th'intake of food;
And though like currents might pass by with stealth,
Such winds are seldom redolent of good.
If thou hast not my meaning yet surmis'd,
Then pull my finger, and be well appris'd.