Thomas Parnell

(1679 - 1718 / Ireland)

Prop: 2, L: 11 E: Quicunque &C - Poem by Thomas Parnell

Vast was his soul some favorite above
Whose bolder pencil made a boy of love
A boy he thought him lovers less then boyes
Who barter all things for a crop of toyes
He wisely too his roving pow'r bestowd—
& in unconstant feathers drest the God
for now we love anon we hate ye same
Fantastick passion varyes all extreams
Justly he drew him for his play things darts
The little wanton sports with bleeding hearts
Justly he drew them to my cost Ive found
Unseen they fly & still secure to wound
his arms & younger follys fill my heart
But he has lost or hid his better part
His wings no more their heav'nly burthen bear
He sitts an everlasting trouble here
My bloud he fires torments my wretched breast
Drains all my bones & robs my soul of rest
Cease cruell master fly to fuller veines
Your slave is wasted with incessant pains
Imploy your force on something I alas
Am but the shadow of the man I was
Why shoud I dy who live but for your use
& to your part debauch the virgin muse
Who write of nought but arrows flames & eyes
& sing your brightest servants to the skyes.


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 17, 2010



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