If I write any more, it will make my poor muse sick. This night I came home with a very cold dew sick, And I wish I may soon not be of an a-gue sick; But, I hope I shall ne'er be, like you, of a shrew sick, Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHARLESTON by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE THE ANGEL'S SONG; CAROL by EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS INVITES POETS AND HISTORIANS TO WRITE IN CYNTHIA'S PRAISE by PHILIP AYRES THE ALLIGATOR by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE VILLAGE WELL by ALEXANDER BROWN EPIGRAM: 28. THE INTELLECTUAL by CALLIMACHUS A WRITTEN LESSON by S. W. CHAMBERLAIN UPON A MISER THAT MADE A GREAT FEAST; THE NEXT DAY HE DIED FOR GRIEF by JOHN CLEVELAND |