ALTHOUGH my years be not yet two-and-twenty, I'm sick of life as any man can be. O Loves, with work to do elsewhere and plenty, Why must you make your bonfires out of me? Nay, little Loves, where will you find employment When this poor soul you've teased so long decamps? Ah, sure enough, fall to your old enjoyment And play at dice together, idle scamps! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DESERTED GARDEN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING LAUS INFANTIUM by WILLIAM CANTON ELEGY: 11. THE BRACELET; UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESS'S CHAIN by JOHN DONNE GOD'S ACRE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SURCEASE by ALICE GARDNER ADAMS FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: SORROW by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |