Poor Hal caught his death standing under a spout, Expecting till midnight when Nan would come out, But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame, And crus'd was the weather that quench'd the man's flame. Whoe'er thou art, that read'st these moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW LONDON, 1802 (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO THE DAISY (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH EN TOUR; A SONG SEQUENCE: 4. FOR FRANCES ANN by ALBERTA BANCROFT LINES ON EXODUS 3:14 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE COVERT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 3 by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |