When by thy scorne, O murdresse I am dead, And that thou thinkst thee free From all solicitation from mee, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, fain'd vestall, in worse armes shall see; Then thy sicke taper will begin to winke, And he, whose thou art then, being tyr'd before, Will, if thou stirre, or pinch to wake him, thinke Thou call'st for more, And in false sleepe will from thee shrinke, And then poore Aspen wretch, neglected thou Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lye A veryer ghost then I; What I will say, I will not tell thee now, Lest that preserve thee'; and since my love is spent, I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent, Then by my threatnings rest still innocent. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOE HILL LISTENS TO THE PRAYING by KENNETH PATCHEN THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH by ROBERT BROWNING ADVICE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES MOONRISE IN THE ROCKIES by ELLA (RHOADS) HIGGINSON FALSE POETS AND TRUE; TO WORDSWORTH by THOMAS HOOD HEALTHFUL OLD AGE, FR. AS YOU LIKE IT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE TO - (3) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS: MARRIAGE MORNING by ALFRED TENNYSON |