Poetry Archives

I laugh and sing, but cannot tell
Whether the folly on’t sounds well;
                  But then I groan,
                  Methinks, in tune;
Whilst grief, despair and fear dance to the air
            Of my despised prayer.

A pretty antick love does this,
Then strikes a galliard with a kiss;
                  As in the end
                  The chords they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair hand
            Turn all to saraband.