A wood? quoth Lewis; and with that, He laughd, and shook his Sides so fat: His tongue (with Eye that markd his cunning) Thus fell a reas'ning, not a running. Woods are (not to be too prolix) Collective Bodies of strait Sticks. It is, my Lord, a meer Conundrum To call things Woods, for what grows und'r 'em. For Shrubs, when nothing else at top is, Can only constitute a Coppice. But if you will not take my word, See Anno quart. of Edward, third. And that they're Coppice calld, when dock'd, Witness Ann. prim. of Henry Oct. If this a Wood you will maintain Meerly because it is no Plain; Holland (for all that I can see) Might e'en as well be termed the Sea; And C-- by be fair harangu'd An honest Man, because not hang'd. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CLOTHES DO BUT CHEAT AND COZEN US by ROBERT HERRICK THE CASTLE OF CHILLON by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON ALASKA by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER MOVE UPWARD by ALEXANDER ANDERSON SPRING'S UNFOLDING by IRENE ARCHER EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 23. SOONER WOUNDED THAN CURED by PHILIP AYRES GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 3 by RICHARD BARNFIELD WHILE LOVELINESS GOES BY by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH ODE ENTREATING HIM ... IN THE CONTINUATION OF BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS by NICHOLAS BRETON |