The Mad Suitor, an old-style sonnet

My love, I came for you like wine
emerges from the grape when crushed
beneath a pale foot. What other sign
of mortal love might prove a male hushed
by woman’s charms, than when I killed
your suitor on the lawn? Your father felt
it bandits, dear, I know, but maybe chilled
by depth of love, and having smelt
its scent before on passing me at market
once, you knew whose hand had dealt.

A gambler’s metaphor, my dear. I’m rogue
as well as outcast, as you know. Brogues
be damned, I’ll walk the lawn again tonight.
And kill whomever else loves by moonlight.