Though I thy Mithridates were, Framed to defy the poison-dart, Yet must thou fold me unaware To know the rapture of thy heart, And I but render and confess The malice of thy tenderness. For elegant and antique phrase, Dearest, my lips wax all too wise; Nor have I known a love whose praise Our piping poets solemnize, Neither a love where may not be Ever so little falsity. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WINSOME WEE THING by ROBERT BURNS THE TWINS by HENRY SAMBROOKE LEIGH KIT CARSON'S RIDE by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER TO A DOG by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY THE FIELD MOUSE by WILLIAM SHARP ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 12. ON RECOVERING FROM A FIT OF SICKNESS IN COUNTRY by MARK AKENSIDE |