I do confess, the over-forward tongue Of public duty turns into a wrong, And after-ages, which could ne'er conceive Our happy Charles so frail as to receive Such a disease, will know it by the noise Which we have made in shouting forth our joys. And our informing duty only be A well-meant spite, or loyal injury. Let then the name be alter'd; let us say They were small stars fix'd in a Milky-way, Or faithful turquoises, which Heaven sent For a discovery, not a punishment; To show the ill, not make it; and to tell By their pale looks the bearer was not well. Let the disease forgotten be, but may The joy return us yearly as the day; Let there be new computes, let reckoning be Solemnly made from his recovery; Let not the Kingdom's Acts hereafter run From his (though happy) Coronation, But from his health, as in a better strain. That plac'd him on his throne; this makes him reign. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN TALL GRASS by CARL SANDBURG ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by FRANCIS BEAUMONT ONE WAY OF LOVE by ROBERT BROWNING UPON THE SAYING THAT MY VERSES WERE MADE BY ANOTHER by ANNE KILLIGREW THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 16 by OMAR KHAYYAM THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: JANUARY by EDMUND SPENSER THE CASE OF ALBERT IRVING WILLIAMSON by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |