Playwright me reads, and still my verses damns, He says, I want the tongue of epigrams; I have no salt: no bawdry he doth mean. For witty, in his language, is obscene. Playwright, I loathe to have thy manners known In my chaste book: profess them in thine own. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UPON HIS SPANIEL [SPANIELL] TRACIE by ROBERT HERRICK THAT NATURE IS A HERACLITEAN FIRE & OF THE COMFORT OF THE RESURRECTION by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS WEEDS by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TO THE LADYBIRD by MOTHER GOOSE THE WIDOW; SAPPHICS by ROBERT SOUTHEY IDYLLS OF THE KING: TO THE QUEEN by ALFRED TENNYSON |