THE swans, whose pens as white as ivory, Eclipsing fair Endymion's silver love, Floating like snow down by the banks of Po, Ne'er tun'd their notes, like Leda once forlorn, With more despairing sorts of madrigals, Than I, whom wanton Love hath with his gad Prick'd to the core of deep and restless thoughts. The frolic youngsters Bacchus' liquor mads Run not about the wood[s] of Thessaly With more enchanted fits of lunacy Than I, whom Love, whom sweet and bitter Love Fires, infects with sundry passions; Now lorn with liking over-much my love, Frozen with fearing if I step too far, Firèd with gazing at such glimmering stars As, stealing light from Phœbus' brightest rays, Sparkle and set a flame within my breast. Rest, restless Love; fond baby, be content; Child, hold thy darts within thy quiver close: An if thou wilt be roving with thy bow, Aim at those hearts that may attend on love: Let country swains and silly swads be still; To court, young wag, and wanton there thy fill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEASONS: A HYMN by JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) BEAUTIFUL WOMEN by WALT WHITMAN THE BIRDS: THE HYMN OF THE BIRDS by ARISTOPHANES OFF MESOLONGI by ALFRED AUSTIN MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG by JAMES BALLANTYNE |