Sing thou of perfection, of what you claim

to see. But leave you the sound of my name.

That note is mine to keep, and to bestow

on those who find my favor. You must know

the patent sentiment I keep of you.

No? Then hast thou been outfaced by the dew?

Tis simple, vapid, crystalline. Now mind,

you claim faultless sight, then prove yourself blind.