Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine With rage of love, I called my love unkind; She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find. I joyed, but straight thus watered was my wine, That love she did, but loved a love not blind, Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore, by her love's authority, Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly, And anchor fast myself on virtue's shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of love, new-coined to help my beggary, Dear, love me not, that you may love me more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A HYMN OF HATE by DOROTHY PARKER HOLY SONNET: SATIRE 3. ON RELIGION by JOHN DONNE SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER SONNET TO NICHOLAS BLACKLEECH OF GRAYES INNE by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE POET, AND HIS INTERPRETERS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE GIAOUR; A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE DREAM by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. IN REPLY TO HIS SOLICITATION by WILLIAM COWPER |