I cannot tell, who loves the skeleton

A poem by Richard Lovelace

I cannot tell, who loves the skeleton
Of a poor marmoset; nought but boan, boan;
Give me a nakednesse, with her cloath's on.

Such, whose white-sattin upper coat of skin,
Cut upon velvet rich incarnadin,[56.1]
Has yet a body (and of flesh) within.

Sure, it is meant good husbandry[56.2] in men,
Who do incorporate with aery leane,
T' repair their sides, and get their ribb agen.

Hard hap unto that huntsman, that decrees
Fat joys for all his swet, when as he sees,
After his 'say,[56.3] nought but his keepers fees.

Then, Love, I beg, when next thou tak'st thy bow,
Thy angry shafts, and dost heart-chasing go,
Passe RASCALL DEARE, strike me the largest doe.[56.4]

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'I cannot tell, who loves the skeleton' by Richard Lovelace

comments powered by Disqus