Poor Hal caught his death standing under a spout, Expecting till midnight when Nan would come out, But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame, And crus'd was the weather that quench'd the man's flame. Whoe'er thou art, that read'st these moral lines, Make love at home, and go to bed betimes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOROTHY DANCES by LOUIS UNTERMEYER CALLER HERRIN' by CAROLINA OLIPHANT NAIRNE AGAMEMNON: WELCOME TO AGAMEMNON by AESCHYLUS THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT by EARL ALONZO BRININSTOOL AN ELEGY ON MR. WILLIAM HOPTON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) WINE OF CYPRUS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |