PHILLIS, you boast of perfect health in vain, And laugh at those who of their ills complain; That with a frequent fever Chloe burns, And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns! O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen, Little, alas! are their distempers seen. But thou, for all thy seeming health, art ill, Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill; No lenitives can thy disease assuage, I tell thee, 'tis incurable -- 'tis age. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CITY AT THE END OF THINGS by ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN NORTHBOUN' by LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM by JOANNA BAILLIE GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 4 by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE POWERFUL by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE STORM OF WAR by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: NEWS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |