Dear, why make you more of a dog than me? If he do love, I burn, I burn in love; If he wait well, I never thence would move; If he be fair, yet but a dog can be. Little he is, so little worth is he; He barks, my songs thy own voice oft doth prove; Bidden, perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove; But I unbid fetch even my soul to thee. Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips, That lap doth lap, nay lets, in spite of spite, This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips. Alas, if you grant only such delight To witless things, then love, I hope (since wit Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PEACE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH by AMY LOWELL BROTHERHOOD (2) by EDWIN MARKHAM SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE GOLD-SEEKERS by HAMLIN GARLAND SENTINEL SONGS: 1 by ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN |