I AT what a wild malicious rate, Blind, cruel Deity, Do thy keen arrows fly! Sure th' art not God of Love, but Hate, Bold tyrant-child, that can'st endure To make a wound admits no cure. II An happiness can wait upon Strangers, that distant are, As North and Southern Star, But we, though born under one zone, Who in one root, one cradle lay, In love must be less blest than they. III Ah! that's the cause why we must run, Like streams sprung from one source Each in a various course, The fiction incest so to shun: When better, that we mix'd, it were, Than others rivers ravish'd her. But I'll pursue her, till our floods agree, Alpheus I, and Arethusa she. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BRUTUS LIVES AGAIN IN BOOTH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE BEAR by EDITH SITWELL THE POOR by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS CHURCH-MUSICK [CHURCH MUSIC] by GEORGE HERBERT THE TWO FLAMES by ELOISE BRITON OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 7. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE THIRD EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |