Even as lame things thirst their perfection, so The slimy rimes bred in our vale below, Bearing with them much of my love and hart, Fly unto that Parnassus, where thou art. There thou oreseest London: Here I have beene, By staying in London, too much overseene. Now pleasures dearth our City doth posses, Our Theaters are fill'd with emptines; As lancke and thin is every street and way As a woman deliver'd yesterday. Nothing whereat to laugh my spleen espyes But bearbaitings or Law exercise. Therefore I'le leave it, and in the Country strive Pleasure, now fled from London, to retrive. Do thou so too: and fill not like a Bee Thy thighs with hony, but as plenteously As Russian Marchants, thy selfes whole vessell load, And then at Winter retaile it here abroad. Blesse us with Suffolks sweets; and as it is Thy garden, make thy hive and warehouse this. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHANNEL FIRING by THOMAS HARDY BETROTHED ANEW by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN TO THE STATES. TO IDENTIFY THE 16TH, 17TH, OR 18TH PRESIDENTIAD by WALT WHITMAN TEN YEARS AFTER by JOSEPH AUSLANDER TO MY OLD COAT by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER |