[ The question makes him laugh, though the emotion echoing through the sync makes it clear that what he finds funny is the thought of him writing poetry, not any potential ignorance on her part. He has no judgments on familiarity with the material; he comes from a time when pre-Golden Age literature is scarce, and his interest in it is just another odd hobby. ]

No. Shakespeare. Sonnet 25.

I'm no writer. But as I said... memorization is a trick. [ Really, there are plenty of people (and he might be one of them) who would argue he's stuffed so many random plays and poems into his brain because he's definitely not using it for anything else. ] Poems are more fun to recite than longer things like novels.

[ He considers how sleepy and content she feels. He has many more poems rattling around in his head that he can offer up. ]

Soul’s joy, bend not those morning stars from me,
Where virtue is made strong by beauty’s might,
Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight,
And humbleness grows one with majesty.
Whatever may ensue, O let me be
Co-partner of the riches of that sight;
Let not mine eyes be hell-driv’n from that light;
O look, O shine, O let me die and see.
For though I oft my self of them bemoan,
That through my heart their beamy darts be gone,
Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed,
Yet since my death wound is already got,
Dear killer, spare not they sweet cruel shot;
A kind of grace it is to slay with speed.