How I do love thee Beaumont, and thy muse, That unto me dost such religion use! How I do fear myself, that am not worth The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth! At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st; And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st. What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves? What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives? When even there, where most thou praisest me, For writing better, I must envy thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLUG IN WOODS by EARL (EARLE) BIRNEY SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 18 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE [WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA] by REGINALD HEBER A TERRIBLE INFANT by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON THE DEATH OF THE POOR by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE YEARNING by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE TAKE YOUR CHOICE: ACCORDING TO FRANKLIN P. ADAMS by BERTON BRALEY |