Oh that my lungs could bleat like butter'd peas; But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch, And are as mangy as the Irish Seas, That doth ingender windmills on a bitch. I grant that rainbows, being lull'd asleep, Snort like a woodknife in a lady's eyes; Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep, For creeping puddings only please the wise. Not that a hard roed herring should presume To swing a tithe pig in a catskin purse; For fear the hailstones which did fall at Rome, By less'ning of the fault should make it worse. For 'tis most certain winter woolsacks grow From geese to swans, if men should keep them so, Till that the sheep shorn planets gave the hint, To pickle pancakes in Geneva print. Some men there were that did suppose the sky Was made of carbonado'd antidotes; But my opinion is, a whale's left eye Need not be coined all King Harry groats. The reason's plain, for Charon's western barge Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood, Beckoned to Bednal Green, and give him charge To fasten padlocks with antarctic food. The end will be the millponds must be laded, To fish for white-pots in a country dance; So they that suffered wrong and were upbraided Shall be made friends in a left handed trance. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: J. MILTON MILES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS JUST & UNJUST by CHARLES SYNGE CHRISTOPHER BOWEN YOUTH AND ART by ROBERT BROWNING SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL; WRITTEN IN GERMANY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE BABIE by JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN |