From “Coy” (v)

But coyness were a crime. My. 
For him charriot to my gates and 
praise, praise, praise! And such a

sweetness ecchoing may devour 
the world and my. Were I coy? 
May-be but rather quaint, youthful.

Coy be time’s complain. And his. 
Eyes down, skin fire and grow to 
rubies state yet I were nor willing!

Still, for years I find my crime. My 
part. My make. My quaint. My 
coy. Him crime I cannot find.