74 - Poem by Mary Wroth
Love a childe is ever crying,
Please him, and he strait is flying;
Give him, he the more is craving,
Never satisfi'd with having.
His desires have no measure,
Endlesse folly is his treasure:
What he promiseth, he breaketh,
Trust not one word that he speaketh.
Hee vowes nothing but false matter,
And to cousen you hee'l flatter:
Let him gain the hand, hee'l leave you,
And still glory to deceive you.
Hee will triumph in your wailing,
And yet cause be of your failing:
these his vertues are, and slighter
are his guifts, his favours lighter.
Feathers are as firme in staying,
Wolves no fiercer in their praying.
As a child then leave him crying,
Nor seeke him so giv'n to flying
Comments about 74 by Mary Wroth
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye