HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair, However great the dying lover's care, Ovid, kind author, found him some relief, Ranged his unruly sighs, and set his grief; Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gained him pity, sometimes love. But oh! what pangs torment the destined heart, That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart! What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give, Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE KING'S THRESHOLD by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ENTERTAINMENT GIVEN BY LORD KNOWLES: SONG OF THREE VOICES by THOMAS CAMPION THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 24 by THOMAS CAMPION BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF BOBBING JOAN by PATRICK CAREY |