When att your handes of love the sugred fruite I dyd requeste in guerdon of my truth Yow dyd alleadge to hynder such my Sute good fame which dyd surpasse delights of youth But as a man I pleasure dyd preferr with those sweete Joyes which I in love doe fynde Before those dreams that make us thinke wee err and lyve in awe of woordes that are but wynde For frankly speake and then sweet frende tell me in theis great termes off fame what profe is founde That doth delyght or with our sence agree on olde wives tales, a fancye vaine yow grownde For in conceite alone doth fame Consyste But pleasure yow may taste off yf yow lyste. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JULY IN GEORGY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: ARCHIBALD LOWELL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A WINTER NIGHT by WILLIAM BARNES A LONDON FETE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 37 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE BONNIE LASS OF ALBANY by ROBERT BURNS WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS, FOR CHLORIS by ROBERT BURNS |