FOND, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire; Thy lost desire May now retire. She, like a salamander, in thy flame Sports with Love's name, And lives the same, Unsinged, impenetrably cold. Sure, careless Boy, thou slep'st; and Death, instead Of thine, conveyed His dart of lead. This thou unluckily at her hast sent, Who now is bent Not to relent, Though thou spend all thy shafts of gold. I prithee filch another fatal dart And pierce my heart; To ease this smart, Strike all my senses dull. Thy force devours Me and my powers In tedious hours, And thy injustice I'll proclaim Or use some art to cause her heat return, Or whilst I burn Make her my urn, Where I may bury in a marble chest All my unrest. Thus her cold breast, If it but lodge, will quench, my flame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LEAK IN THE DIKE; A STORY OF HOLLAND by PHOEBE CARY THE MAIDEN QUEEN: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN LAY OF THE TRILOBITE by MAY EMMA GOLDWORTH KENDALL THE CLOAK by ANNA LOUISE BARNEY AN OLD BURYING GROUND by ELFRIDA DE RENNE BARROW SEEN IN TWILIGHT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE ENGLISH POETS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN EPISTLE FROM ONE ABSENT EDITOR TO ANOTHER by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |