Of a Response to her Husband’s Gift of a Poynted Diamond

 

All thanks to thee for this most precious gift:

I needed not thy poem to catch thy drift.

I knew thy poynt the day that we were wed

when I was shifted quickly into bed.

“To bed, abed.”  ‘Twas all I ever heard,

your codpiece joggling as your barb was stirred.

Down all the days, till I was fat with child,

thou’ld’st heave thy upward way, thought me beguiled.

Then, loving words I’d hear throughout the night,

though daylight traced thee preening in Her sight.

Thy aim was clear: the circlet of Her ladies,

whilst I was left bejewelled to brood on babies.

Though brilliant words do often shaft their way

to women’s hearts, for me they fall astray.

Thy poynt, deare John, stays bedded in my feares,

yet more’s to come; my diamonds be my teares.

Sir John Harington's original.