Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best!
I, that was once so heedless of thy frown,
Have armed thee cap-a-pie to strike me down,
Have given thee blades to hold against my breast.
My virtue, that was once all self-possessed,
Is parcelled out in little hands, and brown
Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:
To threaten these will put me to the test.

Sure, since there are these pitiful poor chinks
Upon the makeshift armour of my heart,
For thee no honour lies in such a fight!
And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, methinks,
Who came awake with such a painful start
To hear the coughing of a child at night.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.