FIE, Delia, talk no more of love, It galls me to the heart, You threescore are, I doubt above, For all your plast'ring art. And therefore spare your pains you may; For though you press me night and day, I can't do that my soul abhors: Or by your art's assistance, though I might Prevail upon my appetite, I durst not couple, though, I swear With you, of all the world, for fear Of cuckolding my ancestors. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ANCIENT PROPHECY by PHILIP FRENEAU TO LUCASTA, [ON] GOING TO THE WARS by RICHARD LOVELACE THE BAYADERE by FRANCIS SALTUS SALTUS THE RIVAL CELESTIAL by WILLIAM ROSE BENET WITHDRAWALS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |