Is not thy sacred hunger of science Yet satisfy'd? Is not thy braines rich hive Fulfil'd with hony which thou dost derive From the Arts spirits and their Quintessence? Then weane thy selfe at last, and thee withdraw From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest, Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest Th'immense vast volumes of our common law; And begin soone, lest my griefe grieve thee too, Which is, that that which I should have begun In my youthes morning, now late must be done; And I as Giddy Travellers must doe, Which stray or sleepe all day, and having lost Light and strength, darke and tir'd must then ride post. If thou unto thy Muse be marryed, Embrace her ever, ever multiply, Be far from me that strange Adulterie To tempt thee and procure her widowhed. My Muse, (for I had one,) because I'am cold, Divorc'd her selfe: the cause being in me, That I can take no new in Bigamye, Not my will only but power doth withhold. Hence comes it, that these Rymes which never had Mother, want matter, and they only have A little forme, the which their Father gave; They are prophane, imperfect, oh, too bad To be counted Children of Poetry Except confirm'd and Bishoped by thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE QUANGLE WANGLE'S HAT by EDWARD LEAR SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 3 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY A SUMMER NIGHT by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE LOVE OF DECEIT by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE PSALM 109 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |