I could feign indifference to you, but must confess I love you in spite of all indecorums.
Now in my fourth month of pregnancy, only recently have I learned you are with the termagant Miss Lamb.
Only months ago in Naples you said my lips were sacred wine. Can you be so cruel as to ignore my plea to Cupid?
Are you bereft of decency? If, indeed, thou art but a sybarite of syncretic verse, I must count myself merely a fool.
But if you are something more, perhaps a wounded Adonis, fallen angel, or tormented genius,
I might find compensation in your kisses. I shall not claim to understand what it is to be a poet or
fathom the currents beneath your lordship's breast. But in the realm of emotions, are we all not equally naked?
Hence I entreat you to return to me and desist from any further rambling.
I remind you that I am your most faithful admirer. With a passion emboldened both by thy poetry and the natural
grace of your dark, Italianesque eyes. . . .