FIE, Delia, talk no more of love, It galls me to the heart, You threescore are, I doubt above, For all your plast'ring art. And therefore spare your pains you may; For though you press me night and day, I can't do that my soul abhors: Or by your art's assistance, though I might Prevail upon my appetite, I durst not couple, though, I swear With you, of all the world, for fear Of cuckolding my ancestors. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO FUNERALS: 1. by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THALATTA! THALATTA!; CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND by JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN THE SUN GOD by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE AS KINGFISHERS CATCH FIRE by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS ON A CHILD by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ON LOOKING INTO GOLDING'S OVID by STEVE SCAFIDI JR. |