How oft have I, my dere and cruell foo, With those your Iyes for to get peace and truyse, Profferd you myn hert, but you do not use Emong so high thinges to cast your mynde so lowe. Yf any othre loke for it, as ye trowe, There vayn weke hope doeth greately theim abuse; And thus I disdain that that ye refuse; It was ones myn: it can no more be so. Yf I then it chase, nor it in you can fynde In this exile no manner of comfort, Nor lyve allone, nor where he is called resort, He may wander from his naturall kynd. So shall it be great hurt unto us twayn, And yours the losse and myn the dedly pain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DISCORDANTS: 1 by CONRAD AIKEN THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER [DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN by JULIA CRAWFORD OFF THE GROUND by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE AT HOME IN HEAVEN by JAMES MONTGOMERY ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 68 by PHILIP SIDNEY |