Into these loves who but for passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by And seek elsewhere, in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy. No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast, Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring. Nor in 'Ah me's' my whining sonnets dressed, A libertine, fantastically I sing. My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change; And as thus to variety inclined, So in all humors sportively I range: My muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: SIBYLLA'S DIRGE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE LONELY HOUSE by EMILY DICKINSON FATHER WILLIAM [QUESTIONED], FR. ALICE IN WONDERLAND by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY by ISAAC ROSENBERG TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE by ALFRED TENNYSON AT A READING by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH DEAD IN HIS BED by ADDIE LUCIA BALLOU TO DR. AIKIN ON HIS COMPLAINING THAT SHE NEGLECTED HIM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |