Sonnet: My Man

My mister's eyes are nothing like the sun;

When he does kiss, 'tis if he were one dead;

If snow be white, why then his chins are dun;

If hair be wires, great spools, it's true, he's shed.

I have seen his face grow pale, grim and white,

So angry, red flame from his eyes does leak;

In some factories I've found more delight

Than the breath that from his rotted mouth reeks.

I wince to hear him speak, so well I know

That dying engines have more pleasing sound;

I'll grant I never saw an idol go;

My man does tread but hard upon the ground.

And yet, by hell, I think my love is rare:

Scarce, not well-done, and only partly there.