Be broken, heart of mine in touch with love,

To which I paid all but none I gained back;

A joy proposed, but a woe when I have,

With none to blame, but me and my own luck.

But when I see, my feelings turned to rhymes,

With ink of red, that comes from vicious wounds,

Which form three passages, made of four lines,

To who do read, they speak with silent sounds.

Then those like me, their own hearts broken be,

May read my lines, and do somehow relate;

And sympathy in mind, they'll form for me.

For years to come, my love's worth they'll debate.

So for this world, to have an art of blue,

My heart went through these torments all from you.