Who now calls on thee, Nevil, is a muse, That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth choose Where virtue makes them both, and that's in thee: Where all is fair, beside thy pedigree. Thou art not one, seek'st miseries with hope, Wrestlest with dignities, or feign'st a scope Of service to the public, when the end Is private gain, which hath long guilt to friend. Thou rather striv'st the matter to possess, And elements of honour, than the dress; To make thy lent life, good against the Fates: And first to know thine own state, then the State's. To be the same in root, thou art in height; And that thy soul should give thy flesh her weight. Go on, and doubt not, what posterity, Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee. Thy deeds, unto thy name, will prove new wombs, Whilst others toil for titles to their tombs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MITHRIDATES by RALPH WALDO EMERSON SONNET: 23. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE by JOHN MILTON THE LONELY CHILD by JAMES OPPENHEIM VALENTINES TO MY MOTHER: 1884 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI STARTING FROM PAUMANOK by WALT WHITMAN OH, TORTURE NOT MY SOUL! by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS FIAMMETTA: SONNET. OF HIS LAST SIGHT OF FIAMMETTA by GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO |