Woe, woe to me, on me return the smart; My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain; For oft in pain, to pain, my painful heart With her due praise did of my state complain. I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs (O legs!), her aye well-stepping feet. Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and boldened with desire Her face (this age's praise) the thief doth kiss. O Pain, I now recant the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON DIGITAL EXTREMITIES by FRANK GELETT BURGESS THE TIDE OF FAITH by MARY ANN EVANS SEVEN TIMES TWO [ - ROMANCE] by JEAN INGELOW TO MRS. THRALE [ON HER COMPLETING HER THIRTY-FIFTH YEAR] by SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) THE DREAMER by SHAEMAS O'SHEEL OUR LEFT' by FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH CONCLUDING VERSES, AFTER RETURNING HOME FROM AN AUTUMNAL MORNING WALK by BERNARD BARTON |