Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow Lord Thurlow |
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2. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XIX. |
XX. |
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XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
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XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. | ODE XL.
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XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
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LIII. |
LIV. |
LV. |
Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | ||
58
ODE XL.
[Love amid the roses play'd]
Love amid the roses play'd,
Of rosy thorns no whit afraid,
But had not the wit to see
Amid' the flowers a sleeping bee;
Stung by the bee, i' th' finger stung,
The meadows with his outcry rung.
Of rosy thorns no whit afraid,
But had not the wit to see
Amid' the flowers a sleeping bee;
Stung by the bee, i' th' finger stung,
The meadows with his outcry rung.
Running, flying, he repair'd
To fair Venus, golden-hair'd,
“O I am lost, Mamma!” he said,
“O I am lost, and I am dead!
“A little winged serpent hath
“Struck me in his fiery wrath!
“A serpent, O Mamma,” said he,
“Whom countrymen do call a bee.”
To fair Venus, golden-hair'd,
“O I am lost, Mamma!” he said,
“O I am lost, and I am dead!
“A little winged serpent hath
“Struck me in his fiery wrath!
“A serpent, O Mamma,” said he,
“Whom countrymen do call a bee.”
But then she said, “If thus the sting
“Of a bee such pain doth bring,
“How do you think they grieve, belike,
“O Love, most wretched, whom you strike?”
“Of a bee such pain doth bring,
“How do you think they grieve, belike,
“O Love, most wretched, whom you strike?”
Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | ||