When att your handes of love the sugred fruite I dyd requeste in guerdon of my truth Yow dyd alleadge to hynder such my Sute good fame which dyd surpasse delights of youth But as a man I pleasure dyd preferr with those sweete Joyes which I in love doe fynde Before those dreams that make us thinke wee err and lyve in awe of woordes that are but wynde For frankly speake and then sweet frende tell me in theis great termes off fame what profe is founde That doth delyght or with our sence agree on olde wives tales, a fancye vaine yow grownde For in conceite alone doth fame Consyste But pleasure yow may taste off yf yow lyste. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A LECTURE-ROOM by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH THE BRIDGE: 7. THE TUNNEL by HAROLD HART CRANE ONE POET VISITS ANOTHER by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES BEREAVED by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY A SOUL; A STUDY by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |