MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE1624-1674
1624-1674
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;And from thy branches every one takes someOf thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;And from thy branches every one takes someOf thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;And from thy branches every one takes someOf thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!
Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;
And from thy branches every one takes some
Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.
But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,
That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.