5 I m haggard now, you ve turned me quadruped

I'm haggard now, you've turned me quadruped.
Like currant wine, encomiums - your poems.
Sound sleep to both of us, we go to bed.
Let it be shrine and not the linch in bowers.

Such fits of mirth brought her to the confines
of wild hysterics. Her desires were rabid:
glad to lay down her life for such a man.
Our fall's vintage was as the summer languid.

We were loquacious, happy at that time.
Woke up betimes and never stinted measures.
The stimulants to merriment beguiled
that very time which we recalling treasure.

And we concocted a decoction - well -
One poem shuts our incoherent fancies.
They're incongruous? But their balmy smell
united us and maximized the chances.