HOW many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet? Where I to thee eternity shall give, When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise; Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes, Shall be so much delighted with thy story, That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, To have seen thee, their sex's only glory: So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INCIDENT AT BRUGES by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH RECOMPENSE by JESSE M. BALL ALLEN HAPPINESS THROUGH THE YEAR by J. MARGARET CRUTE ASHCRAFT MY LETTERS by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM SPRING SONG by MAVIS CLARE BARNETT CHARLES LAMB by PAKENHAM THOMAS BEATTY RUIN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |