It were the horns of a dilemma
        By which the man get gored
As verse profuse he may not stem, a
        Dilemma much abhorred,
For Beatrice were never Gemma
        So disparate love accord.

’Twere not of quantity but kind,
        Its quality distinct,
Which put a poet in a bind
        As twain were never linked
Despite becoming so, repined,
        Regretted—told succinct.

’Twere not a lack of love, i’faith
        In that it seem to be,
For it, so as the Good Book saith
        Were blessed perpetually,
But as the poet chase his wraith
        Much sacrifice he see.