THERE is no sense that I should write a line On such a beauty, Cynthia, as thine; I am no poet, and it is in vain, Since thou exceed'st all worth, to strive to feign: On my poor lines the Thespian well ne'er dropt, From me the fount of Helicon is stopt: I ne'er was so ill bred as to invoke Apollo, and to sacrifice with smoke Of coals, or billets, nor yet am I able, In the west-end of Cardinal Wolsey's stable, To keep a Pegasus, a horse that might Advance my muse by his swift nimble flight: Yet like a man opprest with grief and cares, Law-suits, and troubles, so with me it fares: If he but take a lusty jovial drink, Forgets all sorrows, so if I but think On thee, or thy chaste beauty, then my cheer Is chang'd, no clouds do in my soul appear; Thy rare divinest beauty so expels With joys the horror of ten thousand hells. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TEARS AND KISSES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMEDAY BOOK: MIRIAM FAY'S LETTER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS EPIGRAM: HERO AND LEANDER by JOHN DONNE FULL OF LIFE NOW by WALT WHITMAN RECOGNITION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |