THE FORSAKEN MAID by RICHARD BROME

NOR love, nor fate dare I accuse,
For that my love doth me refuse:
But O, mine own unworthiness,
That durst presume so great a bliss!
Too mickle 'twere for me to love
A man so like the Gods above,
With angels face, and Saint-like voice,
'Tis too divine for human choice.

But had I wisely given my heart,
For to have loved him but in part:
As only to enjoy his face.
Or any one peculiar grace;
As foot, or hand, or lip, or eye:
Then had I lived where now I die.
But I, presuming all to choose,
Am now condemnèd all to lose.

You rural Gods that guard the swains,
And punish all unjust disdains;
O do not censure him for this,
It was my error, and not his.
This only boon of you I'll crave,
To fix these lines upon my grave:
Like Icarus, I soared too high,
For which offence I pine, I die.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!

Other Poems of Interest...