The Tattered Pique

Thy love for fortune, is my downfall and fate,
Thy love for lust, and beauty demise.
In a weakened and pardoned state,
Should my fortune be thine, and lingering cries?
O thou heart holds hostage, and I thee.
For a breathless night, thou shalt goest forth,
And I shall prithee upon a withered breeze.
Then cry to the minion of the north,
O minion why must you taunt me?
When I prithee, o restless though I speak
Fall to my knees for thee, and only thee.
As thou torn dress, or ripped tattered pique,
    Falls in my hands, and I hold this unto thee,
    To love through all time, to love for eternity.