MANY say of me, why does he complain, Losing his best years for so slight an ill? Why mourn so loud, if hope he harbours still; If nought he hopes, why not content remain? When whole and free, I used the selfsame strain, But surely he has little wit or skill, Or else his heart do pride and malice fill, Who blames my grief, but reckons not my pain. Love, with a hundred pangs, has stabbed me through, And still they bid me my complaints subdue. I'm not so mad as to increase my grief By speaking. Only my lost peace restore, Sonnets and songs I quit for evermore; Meanwhile, who grief forbid should give relief. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME by STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER TWILIGHT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE AT THE SHRINE by RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: OCTOBER by EDMUND SPENSER OPEN MY EYES by ALICE E. BAILEY |