If love e'er knocks upon this hovel door,
If love e'er dare call the name that I adore,
a warriors heart will meet the game,
with poignant arrows I'll surely pierce the same.
Still, within this harried soul,
love's plague hath marked my varied being,
void of crystal clear or fame.
Quiescent, errant love, so marred,
lives on, yet distant, so afar,  
love somehow breathes life,
love's honour, sharpened like a knife,
errant love, miscreant love, remains the same.