What two brave perils of the private sword Could not effect, not all the furies do, That self-divided Belgia did afford; What not the envy of the seas reached to, The cold of Moscow, and fat Irish air, His often change of clime (though not of mind) What could not work; at home in his repair Was his blessed fate, but our hard lot to find. Which shows, wherever death doth please t'appear, Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PANDOSTO, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME: IN PRAISE OF HIS BEST-BELOVED FAWNIA by ROBERT GREENE THE LOVE OF GOD by ELIZA SCUDDER THE QUESTION by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH BATUSCHKA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE LIFE OF MAN by FRANCIS BACON |