As posies of Agapanthis, tied eternal and given in shade of Orleander, I beseech thee, a kiss. With a moment given to instance amidst columbine, I dream alike but wake the same.
In respect of amity, ardent to overture and fervent of gallantry, you burn with ardour. Ebullient, yet tender with mirth, you are lost to the pursuit of that which suits.
Gentile in name, refined with splendour, as born to propriety and words. To court as noble but play as less, in heart with passion for love.
With gravity, I am fallen, swept to the felicity of seduction and helpless to your will. But the intoxication of your enchantment wanes before the lucidity of truth.
Would duration bring such instance that beyond the bounds of position, we may meet without prejudice and equal? Or shall I always be servant?
In antipathy of absence, as with absinth would torment grow, I am lost to your seduction and reckless before charm. With enmity I gaze that which grace would deny, impassioned by devotion and drawn.
But am I for delectation or given to endearment – amusement for pleasure or love? In tragedy of farce, ever the harlequin, consumed by temptation and lost.
With trepidation, reluctant of diversion, I defy venture of that which must be. In sacrifice of self and before the attention of ruin, I renounce my love.
The service of man may be forged in duty, but the service of freedom, more so. I shall serve the king, and with shilling pressed, release you to a dying breath, for tomorrow I sail for France.