Christopher Anstey (1724-1805 / England)
Ah me! full sorely doth it rend my heart,
O! Pessimus, my veteran friend, to view
Thy time--worn front, and curls of yellow hue,
And think, how soon unpowder'd we must part!
And much it grieves me that thy brothers twain,
Malus and Pejor (both the offspring fair
Of Orchard's plastic hand) thy fate must share,
Nor graceful wave their mealy locks again!
Yet doth my soul a secret solace find,
(Such solace as the wise and patient know,
Who taste the blessings which from evils flow
That thou to Priapean head consign'd
Shalt scare voracious crows--and all un--flour'd
Protect the grain thy hungry caul devour'd.
Comments about this poem (A Sonnet by Christopher Anstey )
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