But now my Muse toyld with continuall care, Begins to faint, and slacke her former pace, Expecting favour from that heavenly grace, That maie (in time) her feeble strength repaire. Till when (sweete youth) th'essence of my soule, (Thou that dost sit and sing at my hearts griefe. Thou that dost send thy shepheard no reliefe) Beholde, these lines; the sonnes of Teares and Dole. Ah had great Colin chiefe of shepheards all, Or gentle Rowland, my professed friend, Had they thy beautie, or my pennance pend, Greater had beene thy fame, and lesse my fall: But since that everie one cannot be wittie, Pardon I crave of them, and of thee, pitty. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEW EZEKIEL by EMMA LAZARUS THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER by ALEXANDER POPE AUTUMN SOLILOQUY by ELSIE DINWIDDIE BARTLETT STANZAS TO AN AFFECTIONATE AND PIOUS PARENT, ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD by BERNARD BARTON THE WET MONTH by HENRY BATAILLE SUBSTITUTION by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE STREAM OF LIFE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |