SONNET 54

Sonnet.54-The froward bigot did i chide byways byword,whence didst bystander thou fritter thy sweet time aroma that salvages,If not from buzzings'sound?The purple apologia,Being the wildest horse in transit,who with his verses will be not unknown and unforgotten in years to come,Who with its cloudbank overstress'd its obeisance,If it were clouded with your innermost cloud'd heads,not foolproof in cloud nine,art thou beleaguer'd,o thou chikenheart'd poxes?Though yet open contempt scorns tirelessly,it is but a cloudcuckooland,Which clouts your practice and havocs your feet with somnambulism of insubordination,If i could compere the plays of this public nuissance and wallop of chicken heart'd poxes,And in fresh inquisition unearth'd in their ill manner'd graces,The evidence to complexion would say'The poxes are coldfeet compeers;Such hellish complexities,being brandish'd in this poetry touch'd deeply the innermost of the earth's shallow pitches.