Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire Than did on him who first stale down the fire, While Love on me doth all his quiver spend, But with your rhubarb words you must contend To grieve me worse, in saying that Desire Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end? If that be sin which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed, Ready of wit, and fearing naught but shame; If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed A loathing of all loose unchastity, Then love is sin, and let me sinful be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HUMBLE-BEE by RALPH WALDO EMERSON OLD POETS by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER THE IDEA by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY; A LEGEND OF DOVER by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM A MAN'S DEBT by FRED EMERSON BROOKS THE BURIAL OF THE DANE by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL |