I cannot tell who loves the skeleton Of a poor marmoset, naught but bone, bone. Give me a nakedness with her clothes on. Such whose white-satin upper coat of skin, Cut upon velvet rich incarnadin, Has yet a body (and of flesh) within. Sure it is meant good husbandry in men, Who so incorporate with aery lean, To repair their sides, and get their rib again. Hard hap unto that huntsman that decrees Fat joys for all his sweat, whenas he sees, After his 'say, naught but his keeper's fees. Then Love, I beg, when next thou takest thy bow, Thy angry shafts, and dost heart-chasing go, Pass rascal deer, strike me the largest doe. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STORY OF THE ASHES AND THE FLAME by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY by GEORGE SANTAYANA FEARS IN SOLITUDE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERT MORTON'S WIFE by MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIALIS OUR LADY'S LULLABY by RICHARD ROWLANDS SPRING [IN WAR-TIME] by HENRY TIMROD THE PLANTING by MARGARET LEE ASHLEY LINES TO SAMUEL ROGERS IN WALES ON EVE OF BASTILLE DAY 1791 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |