by William Drummond
Ye who so curiously do paint your thoughts,
Enlight'ning ev'ry line in such a guise,
That they seem rather to have fall'n from skies,
Than of a human hand be mortal draughts;
In one part Sorrow so tormented lies,
As if his life at ev'ry sigh would part;
Love here blindfolded stands with bow and dart,
There Hope looks pale, Despair with rainy eyes:
Of my rude pencil look not for such art,
My wit I find now lessened to devise
So high conceptions to express my smart,
And some think love but feign'd, if too too wise.
These troubled words and lines confus'd you find,
Are like unto their model, my sick mind.
Last updated January 14, 2019