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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499022" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sir Thomas Wortley's Sonnet Answered</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[THE SONNET.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  I.<br>  No more<br>Thou little winged archer, now no more<br>  As heretofore,<br>Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,<br>  No more,<br>Since cruell Death of dearest LYNDAMORE<br>  Hath me depriv'd,<br>I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  II.<br>  Go, go;<br>Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy bow<br>  Poore sillie foe,<br>Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in vain,<br>  Since Death<br>My heart hath with a fatall icie deart<br>  Already slain,<br>Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,<br>  Or wound it o're againe.]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> THE ANSWER.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  I.<br>  Againe,<br>Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,<br>  Through ev'ry veine,<br>Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,<br>  Againe,<br>Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine.<br>  I have no heart,<br>Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with<br>  So deare, so deare a smart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  II.<br>  Then flye,<br>And kindle all your torches at her eye,<br>  To make me dye<br>Her martyr, and put on my roabe of flame:<br>  So I,<br>Advanced on my blazing wings on high,<br>  In death became<br>Inthroan'd a starre, and ornament unto<br>  Her glorious, glorious name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Lovelace">Richard Lovelace</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499022" data-title="Sir Thomas Wortley's Sonnet Answered de Richard Lovelace" data-description="[THE SONNET.

  I.
  No more
Thou little winged archer, now no more
  As heretofore,
Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,
  No more,
Since cruell Death of dearest LYNDAMORE
  Hath me depriv'd,
I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside...."></div>
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