Playwright me reads, and still my verses damns, He says, I want the tongue of epigrams; I have no salt: no bawdry he doth mean. For witty, in his language, is obscene. Playwright, I loathe to have thy manners known In my chaste book: profess them in thine own. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TERRIBLE SONNETS: 3 by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: RUTHERFORD MCDOWELL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX SHAKESPEARE by HENRY AMES BLOOD HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 44 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH THE FAITHFUL BIRD by WILLIAM COWPER TO A YOUNG LADY WHO STOLE A PEN FROM THE PRINCE OF WALES'S STANDISH by WILLIAM COWPER |