It's rare for me to think I have much skill
In anything I care about, and yet
My observations of your loving will
Persuade me that perhaps I should forget
This forced humility and claim by right
Some little talent as regards my wooing.
That doesn't mean that I don't think I might
Easily, by some impertinent pursuing,
Remisdirect that love some other way,
But for the moment it appears I must
Admit my fond persuasions have some sway
In bringing you to love and not disgust.
And yet, despite this great source of comfort
I think it more my luck than my desert.
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