DESERT keeps close, when they that write by guess Scatter their scribbles and invade the press. Stage-poets ('tis their hard, yet common hap) Break out like thunder, though without a clap. Here 'tis not so; there's nothing now comes forth, Which hath not for a licence its own worth. No swagg'ring terms, no taunts; for 'tis not right To think that only toothsome which can bite. See how the lovers come in virgin dye And rosy blush, ensigns of modesty! Though once beheld by such with that content, They need not fear others' disparagement. But I'll not tell their fortunes, whate'er't be; Thou must needs know't, if skill'd in palmestry. Thus much -- where king applauds, I dare be bold To say, 'Tis petty treason to withhold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VILLA PAULINE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD MUSIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET TO KNOW IN REVERIE THE ONLY PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ABSOLUTE by HAYDEN CARRUTH DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |