Words are Dear Lord, notes insignificant But Curled aire when spoke Sedan'd from the Lip Into the Eare, soon vanish, though don't Cant, Yea run on tiptoe, and hence often trip Sometimes do poother out like th'Chimny Smoake Hence often smut the matter, and nigh Choake. Hence, my Dear Lord, the mantle I would make Thee, I do feare will run all Counter buffe, To my design, and streakt be like a Snake, That's new crept out of 'ts garment, a slunk Slough, Or have a smoaky Smell, and Choaky lodge Within its Clasp. And so it proove a blodge. But, oh Dear Lord, though my pen pikes no gold To lace these robes with, I would dress thee in And its a Shame that Tinsyl ribbon should Be all the trimming that I own to bring Yet seeing, Lord, my shop board hath no better, I do presume thou'lt take it of thy debtor. Thou hast me brought into thy house of Wine, The Saphire Caske of thy rich precepts * * * And thy Carbunkled Firkins tappt divine And Choicest Nectar in Sweet Promises. When thou hath * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thy sweetest praise my Muse shall melodiously out sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PLANTATION CHILD'S LULLABY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ON THE MEMORABLE VICTORY OF PAUL JONES by PHILIP FRENEAU THE FEMALE CONVICT by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON THE DYING SWAN by THOMAS STURGE MOORE ANGEL OR WOMAN by THOMAS PARNELL STEADFASTNESS; THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MISTRESS by THOMAS WYATT THE HERO OF VIMY; AN INCIDENT OF THE GREAT WAR by BRENT DOW ALLINSON |