Friday, December 21, 2012

Sonnet 97

Brrrr...'tis a bitter chill that doth bite at your Will in Londoun this eve, groundlyngs, and 'tis the longest night of the year. Mayhap I shall finde me some good companie at Blackfriar's and warm my belly with some Ypocras.

Here is mine sonnet 97, which doth tell of waste and winter-tide. If thou need'st some aide in thy readinge, thou canst finde it here:

No comments:

Post a Comment