Is thine the branch upon which mine blossom shall grow? Wilt thou not be a sword whenst strangers doth question mine virtue?

To me, fair friend, you never can be old. For you are as you were when first your eye I ey'd – A sight of beauty so serene. Six centuries cold; have the forests of time shook thee summer pride?

Nay! Methinks thou shalt always glow and give unto mine vocal cords a worldly show.