Cupid, my little boy, come home again, I do not blame thee for thy running hence, Where thou found'st nothing but desire's pain, Jealousy, with self-unworthiness, offense. Alas, I cannot Sir, I am made lame, I light no sooner in sweet Myra's eyes, Whence I thought joy and pleasure took their name, But my right wing of wanton passion dies. And I, poor child, am here instead of play, So whipped and scourged with modesty and truth, As having lost all hope to scape away, I yet take pleasure to 'tice hither youth; That my schoolfellows plagued as well as I, May not make merry, when they hear me cry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO HIM THAT WAS CRUCIFIED by WALT WHITMAN LUCY (4) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH AS NIGHT COMES by CHARLES G. ADAMS AT PARTING by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND WHO DIED ON SABBATH MORNING by ELIZABETH BOGART TO W.A. AND H.H. ON THEIR DEPARTURE TO EUROPE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE DOVECOTT MILL: 11. WEDDED by PHOEBE CARY |