Orpheus to Woods
Heark! Oh heark! you guilty Trees,
In whose gloomy Galleries
Was the cruell’st murder done,
That e’re yet eclipst the Sunne ;
Be then henceforth in your twigges
Blasted e’re you sprout to sprigges ;
Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire,
Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but Coffins, and their Tombes.
Other works by Richard Lovelace...
The Triumphs of Philamore and Amoret. to the Noblest of Our Youth and Best of Friends, Charles Cotton, Esquire. Being at Berisford, at His House in Straffordshire. From London. a Poem
Sir, your sad absence I complain,… Her long-hid spring, that gave her… Who now her cheerful aromatick hea… Shrinks in her cold and dismal wid… Whilst the false sun her lover dot…
