Thy words, Sir Knight, are beautifully slick
The rainbow shimmer of oil spilled upon the water
A poem, a thing as fine as any
to please Scarlatti's daughter

Thy verse, a backhand compliment,
or a jape to test my mettle?
Thorns concealed amidst the roses,
A secret barb, a hidden nettle?

Perhaps I'm simply too suspicious,
and thy intent is truly pure,
If so I beg thee thy forgiveness,
as my words thee doth endure

But if flattery is thy intent,
thy wish to make a maiden blush
My heart to set aflutter
My pulse be made to rush

You may have missed the mark, Sir Knight,
And of practice, thou needst more
I'd not yet give up thy post
to attempt the life of troubadour.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Aeguary, in the year 629 AF.