A sonnet- failed

Thou art not false,
Though art not right;
Nor pigs dear mouth,
Or dunce’ delight

Art thou fickle at the best of times?
Nay,
A star that shines following the darkest crimes,
After my loutish conduct
Still a love of mine

Thou art a banker’s former
I am a fruit
Treat affection as torn at root
And shall I compare you with the sun?
See your face,
Ebb, in my blindness run?
Then, no
Compare thee with an acorn invi-gorously shaken
And loved and passed
Expertly crafted

Ah, Rass! {In defeat}

I wish to hold you tonight
Hold and never go
I held you tight