Tales

There have been stories like to ours ere now;
Tales told by fires at the set of sun
Of men who loved, and who, and often how,
And what became of them when they were done,
Of women and the loves they came to take
And hold, and sometimes even make their own,
Of others, following within their wake,
Who had to hear the lovers sigh and moan.
Which shall we choose? Shall we be lovers, then,
And sing our sorrows (and our joys) betimes?
Shall I write sonnets to you once again,
And glory you within their cloying rhymes?
Or shall we be the others, and observe
How lovers act, and what they should deserve?