In vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace, And doe myne humbled hart before her poure: The whiles her foot she in my necke doth place, And tread my life downe in the lowly floure. And yet the lyon, that is lord of power, And reigneth over every beast in field, In his most pride disdeigneth to devoure The silly lambe that to his might doth yield. But she, more cruell and more salvage wylde, Than either lyon or the lyonesse, Shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde, But taketh glory in her cruelnesse. Fayrer then fayrest, let none ever say That ye were blooded in a yeelded pray. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE LADIES by MARY LEE CHUDLEIGH TO SHAKESPEARE by DAVID HARTLEY COLERIDGE OLD POETS by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER THE EAGLE OF THE BLUE by HERMAN MELVILLE THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY by OSCAR WILDE HAWTHORNE by AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT |