PROFESSOR ABRAHAM'S DIARY SONNETS Part 2

Sonnet 2. BESHREW THAT SATE THAT SATES AND FONDLES MY SATE TO GRIPE.Beshrew that sate that fondles my sate to gripe,for that tense vile it,sates my contemporary and me!Isn't it not ample to torment me,my solitude,But sate to sate,my bitter'st sate must be!Me from my sate,thy frosty eyes hath seen,And my hindsight self,thou cruelest hath envelop'd,Of he,my sate-self and thee i am beneath;A turmoil thousand times gauchy cloud,thus to be stiffl'd,Press my sate in thy carthasis engulf's bottom,But then my sate puzzle,let my inclement sat me piffle:Whoever sates me,let my sate be his surfeit:Thou canst not then use sate in my hell;And yet,thou wilt;for i being parlous in thy goof,Pecunious and frosty and all that is in me sated.