The Nymph’s no sense of socks

a rejoinder to the poem by Christopher Marlowe 'The Passionate Shepherd to His Love'
(by me, coincidentally not a nymph sock bearer)

Do heed me these reasons so few,
As I will say them only t’you.
From sitting up on rocks you say,
With no offer of socks thy day.

You say we would look at sheep,
I would rather deeply sleep.
But if you could keep their wool,
You may have been able to pay and pull.

To the proffer of many a poise,
Yet it escapes you, thou art so nosey.
To be all folly, should I do pursue?
Go to Molly, once will you her subdue.

Hear me above severe, your so called loved dear,
As I am nearing here, the end of my mere rear.
My feet are cold, and it is getting old,
That all I want you to be told:
Can you please have some socks a fold?

My heart is locked and blocked from you,
As you offer me no sense of socks that would do.
So may you dare, for socks, one pair?